The Empty House
by lauTOre
Summary: Sherlock, in a most unlawful way, returns to the living to hunt down Moriarty's confederates who still want him destroyed. SPOILER up to season 2 finale.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer  
**I don't own "Sherlock" and its characters (which, by the way, is a really good thing because I think that absolutely nobody could do such a tremendous job with the series as its current owners). The story is only a piece of fiction and I don't earn money with it. I don't even own the title, but stole it from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, together with a very rough adaption of his storyline. The bit of the story that remains is mine, though.

**Spoiler!  
**As the title suggests (to those who have read Doyle's original stories, anyway), this story is set AFTER the season two finale (The Reichenbach Fall), so you rather shouldn't go on reading if you haven't seen it yet. Anyway, I would recommend you to watch it, whether you're interested in reading this story or not.

**Thanks  
**… a lot to my beta readers, JolinarJackson and Starfishyeti.

So… I think that's it. Hope you enjoy reading.

* * *

**Prologue**

Sherlock Holmes paused. Something was different. And different meant dangerous.

Perfectly still, he stood there in the half-open door to his flat, listening, waiting. But nothing happened.

There! A breeze. A window had to be open, but Sherlock was sure he had closed all of them before he'd left.

Before his eyes could become accustomed to the darkness, a light flashed up and Sherlock had to shut them; he couldn't help it.

"Who is it?" he demanded and squinted to try to see who was shining the torch into his face.

"Good evening, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Pray, take a seat."

A shudder ran down his spine, but an instant later, Sherlock had recovered his self-control.

"Desmond Milton. Interesting. I have to admit, I thought you were somewhere else."

"Yeah, well, I didn't really like it there. So I thought I'd pay a visit to my old friend. And now please, take a seat."

"What if I don't want to?"

He heard the distinctive sound of a gun's safety being flipped. It didn't surprise him.

"Do you really need to ask?" the sneering voice said.

Sherlock, slowly and deliberately, went to the couch in his small and rather shabby flat. He sat down and with some annoyance tried to avert his gaze from the bright light.

"Oh please, is that really necessary?"

"It is," Milton said, obviously enjoying the position he found himself in. "And I'd be surprised if you didn't like it. Right in the middle of the spotlight! If that's not a place to please Sherlock Holmes, then I don't know what is."

"What do you want?"

"Isn't that obvious?" He drew nearer, his voice became softer. "I am going to kill you, Sherlock Holmes." He paused, and his face was only inches away from Sherlock's as he added with slow deliberation, "Your head is going to roll just like fair Irene's."

That made Sherlock listen. A slight frown appeared upon his forehead. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Come on, don't think I'm stupid. Or did you really believe that crap about the witness protection scheme?"

Sherlock still wasn't sure where this was going – or even where it had come from. "Why wouldn't I?" he asked after a small hesitation.

"Because she was beheaded. By a terrorist cell."

This time, he hesitated even longer. "As much as I appreciate being informed," he said with a cold, nearly casual tone, "why are you telling me this?"

He could hear from his voice that Milton was grinning. "Because I'm savouring this moment. The moment of your destruction."

"I am very sorry, but I fail to see the connection between my, as you call it, 'destruction' and some talk about a beheaded woman."

"Don't try to fool me, Holmes. I know very well how close you were to her." He drew nearer, and his voice became very soft again. "And I can see it in your eyes. You loved her." Suddenly, he turned away, and his tone was casual again. "So, I'm curious. What's it like? I mean, to learn that your one true love is dead?"

For an instant, Sherlock considered attacking the intruder, but he had no chance and before he could even move, Milton was already facing him again. At least Sherlock thought so. He still couldn't see the other man's face due to the bright light.

"What do you want?" he asked again, though this time his voice was much graver.

"Haven't I already told you?"

Sherlock shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, trying to put on his mask of cool arrogance. "Maybe," he replied. "I can't be sure. To be honest, chatting with you isn't interesting or pleasant enough to make me pay much attention."

"Hands out of your pockets. Slowly," Milton said very coldly and Sherlock suppressed a grin. It was really amusing to see that all those inept and mediocre criminals flared up when they were insulted.

"Oh, you think I've got a gun in my trouser pocket," Sherlock said in a mocking tone and despite everything he enjoyed the anger he produced in the criminal. However, he obeyed, although he was making sure that Milton wouldn't notice the five pence coin he had stuck between his index and middle fingers.

"I don't think anything," Milton said and only realized the double meaning of his words when it was too late and Sherlock grinned. "Catch it," he said coldly, and with his left hand, Sherlock got a grip on the dark object that came flying towards him from the light. Adhesive tape.

"Now get up," Milton ordered. "Then go to that chair and tie yourself to it, first your feet, then one hand."

"And then, what are you going to do? Torture me? I'd like to see that."

"Oh, you _will_ see that, believe me. Now get going."

Sherlock stood up, hands held loosely to his sides. In his left hand he held the tape, in the right the coin. He briefly wondered what made Milton think that he would bind himself to that chair to be tortured rather than to let himself get shot at once, but he pushed the thought aside. He had to concentrate now.

With a look of profound hatred (which wasn't really difficult to put on), he stared into Milton's eyes as he slowly went past him to get to the chair. His trick worked: Milton was staring right back into his eyes, a firm, steady gaze, and Sherlock knew that this was the moment. With a swift movement of his hand, he threw the coin into a corner behind his aggressor. A jangle could be heard and for a tiny instant Milton was distracted and moved his head sideways. This was Sherlock's chance. Without hesitation, he kicked the weapon out of the other man's hand, punched his fist into his face and finally made him go down by a kick to his stomach.

It all happened in the fraction of a second, and when Milton had recovered from the shock and surprise, Sherlock was already bending over him, holding the criminal's own pistol in his face.

"I'm usually glad to meet old acquaintances," Sherlock now said with the most pleasant smile on his face, "but I do think that you'd better go back to where you came from."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

John Watson stepped wearily onto the train in the Tube. He was tired. Not only because of the number of patients he had seen today. Not even primarily because of his sleep-deprived nights. No, there was another reason, a deeper form of tiredness that wore him out. All his energy seemed to be gone since that terrible day when…

John closed his eyes and tried to keep his breathing regular. He couldn't think of that. It was definitely enough that he couldn't stop himself from thinking about that day at night, whether awake or in his dreams. He really shouldn't torment himself with these thoughts during the day as well.

So why couldn't he stop thinking of Sherlock?

He snorted. Thank goodness people couldn't read his mind. If they could they'd definitely now think that they'd been a couple.

But what did it matter now anyway?

Today it was a year ago that they had buried him, and it still seemed utterly unreal to John. It still felt wrong to return to his small flat, not to Mrs Hudson and Baker Street. It still felt wrong to sit in the doctor's practice he'd joined instead of solving cases with Sherlock. And it still felt wrong that Sherlock had gone with so many things left between them that should have been done and said.

Against better judgment, John's thoughts wandered back to the day of the funeral. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed and still he could see everything as clearly as if it had been only yesterday. He remembered the immense grief he'd felt when he'd begun to realize what Sherlock's death meant, that he wouldn't come back, that he had lost his best friend. He remembered seeing Mycroft and he remembered the anger that had flashed through him when he had seen him standing there rigidly at his younger brother's grave. He, in his immaculate clothing, his almost casual movements and his expressionless face, as if he had nothing to do with the matter. He remembered his desire to punch his fist into those stony features, to take revenge for Sherlock, to make Mycroft feel what he had done by giving Moriarty all the ingredients to destroy his brother's life. And he remembered how this desire had died when he had gotten a better look into Mycroft's tearless, yet grief-stricken eyes.

The anger at the elder Holmes brother hadn't been the one that tormented him the most, though. His anger at Sherlock was much more difficult to bear, partially because the man wasn't there to defend himself. To answer John's questions. To explain. To explain why he… why he had had to end his life.

* * *

He mounted the stairs leading to his flat. He felt old. He felt as if it was his own life that was over, not Sherlock's. What was his life about, anyway? Work. Work and thinking over things that had passed. And missing the things he had lost.

He opened the door, took off his jacket and stretched. His shoulder began to hurt again. It made him feel even older.

He entered his living room and was just about to let himself fall on his couch when he stopped short. He had to be dreaming. It had to be exhaustion. Probably the stress. And of course his train of thoughts. He had to be hallucinating. For this – _this_ – couldn't be real.

"Ah, John! Can I borrow your phone?"

* * *

John was breathing in rapid and shallow gasps. He felt hot, his brain was burning. There was a noise in his ears, his vision became blurry and he had to cling to the doorframe.

So he wasn't dreaming. Sherlock was _indeed_ lying on his couch, hands laid together on his chest, palm against palm, eyes closed, as he had done so many times on their couch in Baker Street.

But this _wasn't_ Baker Street… and it wasn't one of the times during the years they had been sharing rooms, this was _now!_ And it couldn't be, because Sherlock was dead. He just _couldn't_ be lying here the way he'd used to, it just didn't make any sense!

"What…"

John didn't know what he wanted to ask. He didn't even know whom he addressed. For he couldn't ask Sherlock, could he? For Sherlock was dead, John had seen him die, Sherlock had made him watch… It just... It didn't make sense…

The man who couldn't be there sat up. "I have to admit, I would have preferred if we could have met again under different circumstances, but the way things have developed it didn't seem possible. And I really need to borrow your phone."

The doorframe was pressing against John's back, and maybe it was good this way for it prevented him from collapsing.

Sherlock looked at him, an annoyingly pitying look, and sighed. "Right, you've got questions. I guarantee you that I'll –"

"You're dead."

The 'dead' man cocked his head slightly as if he were considering the possibility. "Well, obviously I'm not," he then said in his old, slightly mocking manner. "But I'm glad the performance left such a lasting impression."

"You are _glad_ –" John couldn't go on. All of a sudden anger rushed through his body and overtook the numbness in him. "What's going on here? You can't be here. I saw you –"

There, he couldn't go on. He still saw the image, it was a recurring nightmare, incessant and infinitely cruel: Sherlock on that roof, talking to him, literally on the verge of death. He had known then what would happen, but he just hadn't wanted to understand, not even after seeing the dead body on the pavement.

By now he had begun to accept that he wasn't hallucinating, that this was real, even though it was impossible. Sherlock ha d always been able to do the impossible, so there was a certain inner logic in it all. So although John didn't comprehend what was going on and why and how, he did know that it _was_ going on – for real.

"It was a trick," Sherlock said, shrugging, as if this were just about pulling a bunny out of a hat. "I had to disappear for a while and my death was the most appropriate solution to the problem."

John shook his head. He still couldn't believe this. Even if Sherlock was standing here in front of him, there was still something odd that didn't fit into the general aspect of things. Sherlock had never been the sentimental type, God no, but this behaviour of his was more than cold. He was being more than oblivious to other people's feelings, this time, he was being cruel – deliberately cruel.

"I don't understand," said John, and a cold tone had entered his voice. He didn't understand – neither how Sherlock had performed this magic trick, nor why he had to torture him like this. "Why didn't you tell me you were alive? I mean, you've been alive all along. I suppose sometime during the last twelve months you must have had the possibility of sending me some sort of message. An SMS would have been okay."

"Could we talk about this later?" It might have been a question, but there was that demanding tone in Sherlock's voice that John recognised from the years he'd spent with him and that didn't leave him any possibility of disagreeing with him. "Now – your phone."

John just stared at him. Then he took his mobile out of his jacket and tossed it into the other man's open palm before he made his way to the couch where moments ago his dead, but not dead, best friend had been lying. Fortunately, his knees buckled only once he had reached it.

There was still chaos in his mind and he felt as if he had a fever. He watched Sherlock texting as he'd done so many times when they'd lived in Baker Street and he wondered if he was really angry. He knew he should be, but somehow, he couldn't, not now that he was beginning to realize what was happening. Sherlock wasn't dead. He hadn't jumped off that building, at least not to kill himself. He hadn't given up. He hadn't let Moriarty win. He wasn't dead.

"Thank you," Sherlock's voice made John come back into that unreal reality.

He took his phone back and looked at the sent messages: '51 Thames Road, 22:30h. You should come. Life and death situation. Can't tell you more. John Watson.'

He glanced at Sherlock critically, his eyebrows raised. "To whom did you send it?"

"Lestrade. By the way, you should turn it off now."

With raised eyebrows, but with some of that old faith in Sherlock's plans, John did as he was told. "And you really think he's gonna fall for this?"

"Well, there is nothing to fall for. We do have a life and death situation and you can't tell him more, can you?"

"Not yet," John said, although he did hardly dare hope that the other man would initiate him into what was going on. Sherlock had never really gotten into the habit of doing so.

John sighed with suppressed anger. While the first shock was slowly wearing off, he got more and more annoyed. "So why my phone?" he asked. Maybe that way he would finally get some information. "Why didn't you use yours?"

Sherlock looked at him as if John were an idiot, and the tone he answered in had a similar sub-text. "I'm supposed to be dead. Dead people can't text."

If Sherlock was going to continue like this, there was a good chance he might be dead for real very soon. "So why are you still pretending to be dead?"

"Now come on, John, this time it's really obvious. Even someone with deductive powers that are as limited as yours should be able to figure that out on his own. And if you'll excuse me now, there are some things I have to do."

He made a step towards the door, but this time, John was faster, and he blocked his way. "Wait – that's it? You're leaving? Just like that?"

Sherlock looked at him with mock surprise. "I understand that's the common way of movement. Flying would be another option, but I heard you needed wings for that, and since I can't show everybody what an angel I am, I'll stick to walking."

John clenched his teeth. He waited until Sherlock was at the door. "So I don't deserve an explanation? About what happened when… on that roof?" It was unbelievable. He still couldn't talk about it, although he now knew that Sherlock hadn't died.

Sherlock sighed, impatient and annoyed, with his hand on the door-handle. "What do you want to know?"

John didn't have to think for an instant. "How can it be that you're alive?"

"It was a trick, simple and efficient."

"I saw you jump. I saw it. And I saw your body."

"That was exactly the point!" Sherlock called out with exasperation. It seemed a bit strange to John that after his extremely calm report he would flare up like that, but then what about this whole conversation was even close to normal?

"I needed a reliable eye-witness, and you came in very handy," Sherlock explained, now calm again. "There had to be someone who could confirm without a doubt that it had been me who'd jumped off that roof and no one else. Everything had to seem like a clear case. Still, I'm surprised that this somewhat improvised plan worked out so well. I mean, didn't you notice the truck with the rubbish bags that stood there when I jumped? You must at least have seen it driving off, although I was told that my friend did a pretty good job with his bike to prevent you from getting to me too soon. But did you never wonder why there had to be that brick house between you and the spot where I was supposed to crash on the pavement? Did you really not see? For I was actually afraid you might notice all those suspicious circumstances, but thank God you've never been very good in deductive reasoning. After all, I'm very obliged to you, John, without such a trusting and malleable witness like you, my neat plan wouldn't have worked half as well. Are we done now?"

John stared at him. Then he nodded, slowly and slightly. "Oh yes. Yes, we are, Sherlock. We're definitely done now. Goodbye."

Sherlock didn't even as much as look at him before he was gone.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Still feeling light headed, John let himself drop onto his couch. Had that happened for real? It couldn't have, it was inexplicable for at least two reasons: one, Sherlock was dead, and two, the Sherlock John had known had often been rude and direct and oblivious to other people's feelings, but he'd never been that… cruel. At least not to him. So maybe Sherlock had indeed died and instead of the man himself, a demon had come into John's flat, directly from hell. That at least would explain it. Or Moriarty had been right all along; Sherlock was a fake and had only pretended to be a human being.

_Forget it_, John told himself. He had been angry with Sherlock so many times in the years before his death that he'd come to realize that there was no point in it. Sherlock would never change, and his anger would only hurt John himself.

So maybe it had been better that way. Maybe John was better off without Sherlock.

Still, he just couldn't get it. Why had he been so cruel to him? Didn't he realize how difficult it was for John to see him again after he had seen him jump to his death?

_Don't think about it. It's Sherlock. You can't reason about him_. He'd probably never understand how Sherlock's mind worked. He'd thought he had at least a bit, but today's events showed him that he'd been dead wrong.

But if he couldn't understand his former best friend, he had at least try to understand what had happened that day. So Sherlock had planned everything. There was the first mystery: when had he done that? And how could he have known what was going to happen? All right, so he had arranged a meeting with Moriarty on that roof – had he known then that he was going to jump off that building? He must have. There was this cyclist he had hired to delay John from getting to him, to give him more time. More time to do what? There was this dustcart he'd talked about. He must have jumped into the rubbish bags, then jumped down on the pavement. So the blood probably hadn't been his, but he'd taken it with him when he'd gone to face Moriarty. And that also meant that as Sherlock had been lying on the pavement, blood streaming over his face, and John kneeling beside him in shock, Sherlock hadn't been dead, not even unconscious.

Then there was the next riddle – his pulse. John – and surely also the paramedics – had taken it and hadn't felt one. But then John knew that there were easy ways to stop one's pulse for a short period of time, and he had no doubt that Sherlock also knew those little tricks. Whatever exactly Sherlock might have done, it had been enough to fool everyone on the scene, but then he'd been brought into the hospital – and someone there must have declared him dead. Theoretically, he might have waited for an opportunity to sneak out before being examined, but that wouldn't explain the body in the coffin. For there had been a body, hadn't there? And there had been the identification of the body?

Of course! John could see it now, it had been Molly who had identified him, so she must have been known about Sherlock's plan. There was no doubt that she would have done anything for him. Still, it was odd that she had been cold enough to let them all believe that Sherlock was dead.

But she hadn't been that cold, John remembered, and now everything that had happened then made sense! Molly had drawn away from all of them. She hadn't even been at the funeral. They all had suspected that it was because she had extreme difficulties coping with Sherlock's death due to the fact she'd been in love with him. Now, however, it was clear that she just couldn't stand lying to them.

So far, things were somewhat clear, at least clearer than half an hour ago. But there was still a bunch of questions: Why had Sherlock's last talk with John been an attempt to convince him that Sherlock had in reality been a fake? And what had Sherlock been doing during the past year? And why had he had to pretend to commit suicide?

It just didn't make any sense! In the aftermath of Sherlock's death, John had pushed the facts to and fro, always looking for a way to explain to himself what had happened. And he'd found one. _Only_ one. The only explanation for Sherlock's death was that he'd had to kill himself to save others from Moriarty's accomplices. There was no other possibility. The investigation of the matter had revealed that Sherlock had jumped off that roof _after_ Moriarty had killed himself, so there was no threat coming from him. So there were two possibilities: either Sherlock had killed himself because everything they said was true; he was a fake and he couldn't go on living with this lie. That was nonsense, however, John knew it. He had lived with Sherlock for years and absolutely nobody could fake what he had done.

So there remained only one possibility: the threat Moriarty had represented hadn't died with him. The only explanation John could think of was that the arch-criminal had loyal accomplices who would carry out his plans even after his death: his plan of Sherlock's complete destruction. But what threat could there be that Sherlock preferred dying in disgrace rather than trying to face his opponents? None – at least none that was directed against Sherlock himself. So the only rational conclusion was that Sherlock had died to protect others – and John'd had the somewhat uncomfortable feeling that he himself was one of those people Sherlock had died for.

Now, however, none of this made sense. It just didn't fit. It seemed as if there were two different people: the hero, the Sherlock that had been ready to give his life for others, and the demon-Sherlock that deliberately tortured him and had overturned his entire world. The Sherlock he knew wouldn't have sneaked into his flat and acted as if nothing had happened, deliberately ignoring John's feelings… at least not to that degree.

The question was – which of the two versions was the real Sherlock? Well, if he thought about it rationally, it couldn't be the first one. Sherlock hadn't died, he wasn't the hero John had had to believe he was because he had never done that heroic action. And he himself had told John once that he wasn't a hero.

So it seemed as if there was only the second alternative left: the demon, not even a human being, that enjoyed hurting other people's feelings. John couldn't deny that there were certain parallels between the demon-Sherlock and the Sherlock he'd lived with in Baker Street. But still something was nagging inside him… Was it possible that he'd been that wrong about the man he'd been inclined to think of as his best friend?

_Now stop it. Stop tormenting yourself._

He should just forget the whole thing. Move on. Pretend nothing had happened.

But how could he? Something _had_ happened, Sherlock had come back from the dead! How was he supposed to just ignore that?

With sudden determination, he glanced at his watch. Half past nine. Perfect. If the world had chosen just not to make any sense anymore, let it be. But he would not make himself a helpless puppet by sitting there all night pondering unsolvable puzzles. Now was the time to actually do something instead of just theorising.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

John had got off the cab at the end of Thames Road and was walking towards number 51 when it occurred to him that it might be clever to be cautious. Sherlock had said it was a life and death situation and John had learned to take such remarks rather seriously.

Being cautious, however, also meant that he now had to stop pondering over what might be going on here. What kind of 'life and death situation' was he going to face? Would Sherlock be there, too? John couldn't be sure. On the one hand, Sherlock rarely missed an opportunity to be in the middle of the action, on the other hand John didn't know whether he wanted to reveal to Lestrade that he was alive or not. And if he did, what would Lestrade do with him? Officially, Sherlock was still considered a fraud. There were a bunch of crimes which people still believed to have been committed by Sherlock as a part of his playing to the gallery. Lestrade couldn't just ignore that and let Sherlock go.

If Lestrade was going to come anyway. Or were they already there? It was now ten o'clock, and the text had told Lestrade to be there at ten thirty. John looked around, but he couldn't detect a sign of anyone. However, he still had to cover a bit of ground.

There were hardly any residential buildings in this area, only warehouses which were probably rather empty at this time of day. A nice spot for a nightly meeting.

Now John could see number 51. It was an a block of flats, but there were no lights in the windows and no sign that it was inhabited. Maybe it was condemned, it certainly looked as if it was going to collapse at any moment.

John stopped briefly, hidden in the shadows of a small group of trees. Why here? Why had Sherlock told Lestrade to come to this empty and obviously deserted house? What was he getting at? And more importantly: what should he, John, do now?

A noise made him whirl around. He tried to see something in the darkness. It had sounded as if a twig had cracked. Had that only been an animal? He couldn't see anything or anybody. Slowly, he turned around his own axis, trying to find the cause of the noise. But he didn't get very far. An instant later, something heavy smashed against his temple and after a flash of pain in his head, the darkness around him became even darker.

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade frowned as he looked at his mobile.

"What is it?" Sergeant Donovan asked him.

"A strange text." He looked up at her. "From John Watson."

Now it was her turn to frown. "Watson? But that's…"

"Sherlock's former flatmate. Correct," Lestrade said, now turning back to the text he'd just received. "He wants us to come to 51 Thames Road tonight."

"Why?"

"He doesn't say. Just that it's a 'life and death situation', whatever that's supposed to mean."

Shaking his head, he dialled John's number. "Turned off," he muttered.

"So what are we going to do?" Donovan asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "We don't really have a choice, do we? John's sensible enough not to call us to rescue a cat from a tree. Something seems to be going on there."

"Shall I inform Connor and Atkins? Or someone else?"

Her superior slowly shook his head. "No. We don't know what's going to happen, we might scare somebody off. Or there might be nothing to it. It'll be just you and me."

* * *

John groaned. His head was killing him. It was going to burst, he was certain of it. And his stomach felt like an anthill. He was sure he was going to vomit. In fact he'd be relieved if he could, as he was sure he'd feel better if he could only get rid of this ant colony.

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

He lifted his head ever so slightly, but that wasn't much use since he still had his eyes closed. He tried to open them. God, that was bright. His head had now definitely burst. But if it had, why was it still hurting so much?

He blinked a few more times. His vision was still blurry and restricted because he had to keep his eyes nearly shut; everything was still much too bright. But slowly, very slowly, the world around him took shape and he got a bit more of a feeling for his surroundings.

He was bound to a chair. A very hard chair. And bound very tightly. He could only see the floor, but that and a bit of deduction were enough to make him realise he was in 51 Thames Road.

"How are you, Doctor? I hope my friend didn't hurt you?"

John now directed his attention towards the figure in front of him. His sub-consciousness had tried to recognise the voice since it had spoken to him the first time, but he hadn't come to a satisfying result. Now, however, as everything had become a bit clearer, he had to admit that it was the only result he could come to. Somehow, this whole train of thoughts seemed like déjà-vu to him.

"What is this? You're dead too," he muttered rather inarticulately.

"Well, everything is not as it seems, is it, Doctor Watson?" That was another voice. John didn't think he'd ever heard it before. And he sure would have recognized that cold, very masculine voice.

He looked up to see the voice's owner, but had only a brief glance for him. His attention was directed to his accomplice who should have been just as dead as Sherlock.

"Ah, Doctor," the accomplice said in a somewhat reprimanding tone. "I'm very disappointed in you. You know I've done something like this before. I could have expected a bit more confidence in my skills on your part. Sherlock had no difficulty figuring it out. But then we're talking about Sherlock. Ah well, I would ask you to send him my love, but I'm afraid that would be something beyond your possibilities."

"What's your plan?"

She cocked her head. "I'm sure you understand that it would not be very sensible on our part to tell you. Or did I give you the impression that I wasn't sensible?"

John snorted. Irene Adler was the most sensible woman he knew. Cold-blooded and malicious, but she never acted against reason. And maybe that was his chance. Irene Adler was a scheming woman, she wouldn't use violence just for fun. And it couldn't be reasonable to hurt or even kill him… could it?

But even if she didn't intend to use violence against him, there was still this other guy. John had never seen him before, but the impression the man made upon him wasn't really one that made John want to get to know him better.

* * *

Sherlock was just about to put his plan into action when he noticed a rather small figure walk rigidly down the road; exactly the way a soldier walked.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath and got back into his hiding place. He wondered if there was a way to warn John. He mentally sifted through the various possibilities, but he couldn't find anything that would prevent him being revealed. And both John and he had better chances of getting out of this alive if Sherlock didn't get caught, even if that, with all probability, meant that John was going to fall into the hands of his adversary very soon.

Sherlock wasn't mistaken. John had just positioned himself in a far too obvious hiding-place – a group of trees directly opposite the apartment building, the very first spot anyone would search when looking for someone who shouldn't be there! – when there came a low groan. John had been knocked out.

He pressed his lips together and thought hard. What should he do now? Wait for Lestrade? Hardly. He might come at any moment, but he might also arrive no earlier than half past ten. But then, what choice did he have?

Fully concentrated he focused on the house in front of him. He knew where they were, that was his advantage. He just had to get to them somehow without them noticing, he had to see without being seen, hear without being heard. And to make matters worse, he was likely to be expected by his adversary.

They'd be in the basement. Sherlock knew that there was a ventilation shaft, but if he hid there he'd make exactly the same mistake as John had made: hide in the spot where you're expected. And he _was_ expected to be somewhere nearby, so he had to hide where they wouldn't suspect him. It was risky, but it was his best chance.

He took off his shoes and went for a window in the first floor. He got in without noise and made his way towards the basement. There was only one way and if his opponent decided to go out for a bit of air, Sherlock would most certainly be seen.

The door to the room where John was being held was open. He seemed to be coming to his senses right now. Perfect. This way, the major part of the attention of his two attackers would be directed at him and not on potential intruders.

Swiftly and hardly making any noise, he positioned himself near the door, in the darkest niche he could find. They wouldn't be able to see him from inside the room, for the room was lit up and he was in the dark. He could see without being seen. The only problem was that it had to remain this way.

* * *

"So you know that Sherlock Holmes is alive?"

John was staring at the floor, trying to avoid showing that he was thinking hard. Was there some way of knowing what his adversaries knew already? Well, there might have been, if Sherlock had been a bit more frank with him. "What makes you think that?" Good, he had managed to keep the nearly latent fear out of his voice, and he had even succeeded at adopting a tone that sounded like mock innocence, even though the pain still made his voice tight.

Again, it was the man who spoke. Irene Adler was being unusually tight lipped. "Oh please, Doctor, don't try to fool us. Rest assured that we'll always be a bit smarter than you are."

John had to agree with him. He wasn't sure if he could really not compete with the man, but he definitely couldn't compete with the woman – _the_ woman. He had seen her in action – gosh, she had even beaten Sherlock Holmes, although the final victory had been his… or at least the victory they had thought then to be the final one.

"So, how long have you known?" the man interrupted John's musings.

"This evening."

"How did you know?"

John thought. He didn't want to tell them something they didn't know already, but that was a bit difficult considering he didn't know what they knew. And they were in a somewhat stronger position than he was. "He came to me. To my flat."

"Why?"

_To use my phone_, was on the tip of his tongue, but if they were going to delve further into that matter they would know that the police were – hopefully! – on their way and that was definitely something they shouldn't know. For John was neither interested in being used as a hostage and then probably being eliminated, nor in being eliminated at once.

"To pay me a visit, I guess."

The man laughed. John wondered what was wrong in Sherlock's world. Why was it so far-fetched to assume that someone considered dead paid a visit to an old friend just to tell him he was alive without the intention of using him in some way?

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, maybe because I'm an old friend of his?"

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends."

"He's got one. Me." At least John had thought so until this evening.

The criminal had also noticed the weak point in John's argumentation. "So you're saying you're his only friend and you didn't know he was alive until a few hours ago?"

"Seems so."

"Now listen up, man!" John gasped. With a quick movement, his adversary had grabbed him around the throat, tightly, as if to make clear that he wouldn't hesitate to throttle him. He came so close to John's face that John could smell his breath, which strangely enough gave him the sensation of peppermint. "I told you not to try pitting your wits against me. I want clear, frank answers, and if I don't get them, I will get very angry. Do you understand me?"

John nodded slightly. He didn't think his voice would work right now.

"So tell me," the criminal said with a frighteningly calm voice, still not releasing his grip, "who else knows that Holmes isn't dead?"

_Good question_, John thought, and his mind was racing to find something he could tell his adversary. He didn't succeed. "I don't know," he croaked.

"Don't lie to me!" the criminal shouted, his grip hardened and John thought he was going to faint.

A rattling sound came into the room. The criminal's head jerked around to the door, then to his accomplice. "He's here," he said. Then he suddenly let go of John and rushed through the door.

John breathed rapidly, trying to get the oxygen back into his brain. After a while, he stopped seeing stars, but he would have given nearly anything for a glass of water. He risked a glance at Irene Adler who was staring in concentration at the door, jaw set, and decided it might not be wise to draw her attention to him. He was momentarily un-observed, and maybe, if he could loosen his bindings…

"Don't," Irene Adler just said, still staring at the door.

John obeyed. Even if he could free his hands, his chances of getting out of here on his own were more than slim, and in this case, he'd better not irritate his adversaries. It struck him that his situation was an utterly helpless one. He had got here without knowing what kind of danger he would face and even less what he would face it _for_. He hadn't thought it was possible, but the realisation of him having been so stupid made him feel even worse than he'd already felt before.


	5. Chapter 4

Hi there!  
…and thanks a lot to the reviewers! It's very nice (and quite a relief…) to know that there are actually people out there who are enjoying this :)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends."

"He's got one. Me."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He wondered if John had reasons for saying things like that. In any case he didn't seem to realise in what danger he'd got himself into by emphasising this connection between him and his kidnapper's currently greatest enemy.

"So you're saying you're his only friend and you didn't know he was alive until this evening?"

There it was. John really should think about his words a bit more thoroughly.

"Seems so."

Oh boy, that was _not_ more thoroughly!

The next words were spoken in such a low voice that Sherlock could hardly hear them although he had sharpened his hearing to the utmost. While he tried to continue listening to the conversation between John and his assailant, a train of thoughts rattled through his mind. What was the best solution if he had to distract Parker? He should decide quickly, for it was obvious that Parker would probably lose his nerves for good any time soon and with a temper like his, no one could imagine the outcome.

Without making any noise, he moved away from the room towards the front door. With all probability he was going to need an escape route very soon.

"Don't lie to me!" Parker shouted and Sherlock knew that this was his cue. He knocked against one of the tins that probably some homeless person or some loitering kids had left here. The noise wasn't loud, but loud enough to get to the criminal's ears and definitely suspicious enough to distract him from John. However, Sherlock had no time to watch the effect of his diversionary tactic; he was already heading for the door. He tore it open, though he didn't have the slightest intention of making it his escape route. Instead, he noiselessly jumped up the stairs and hid in one of the empty flats. Hopefully Parker wasn't too paranoid to consider the possibility of a rat making the noise or any other possibility that would prevent him from searching the whole building.

* * *

The man came back with a nervous twitch on his face that John hadn't noticed earlier. "Nobody," he told Irene.

"Maybe it was just a rat?" she asked and the insecure tone didn't quite match with her usual composure and self-assurance.

"Maybe," the other responded, but the worried expression remained on his face. "Now, what do we do about him?" His head jerked towards John, but apart from that he was acting – and especially talking – as if John weren't there. "If we kill him, we have to do something about the body."

"Well, we could just leave the body here. The police won't be able to trace it back to us."

"Maybe not the police, but certainly Holmes."

"But Holmes is going to follow us whether we leave the body here or elsewhere."

John's head went to and fro from one to the other as if he was following a tennis match, only that he had somehow the impression that he was the ball. "You know," he said, thinking that he couldn't make matters worse anyway, "you wouldn't have this problem if you didn't… you know, kill me."

They both offered him a faint smile.

"Nice try."

"He has a point there, though," Irene said. "Killing him would only complicate matters."

"It's not that we have a whole lot of possibilities. We can't just let him go."

"Still, I do wonder…"

John never knew what she wondered, for again at that moment there was a noise from the hallway, sounding just like the first one.

"That's enough, I tell you, that's not a rat!" And Parker stormed out of the room.

Irene sighed. "Always so irascible, that masculine type, don't you think? Never calm enough to think matters through."

* * *

Sherlock had just re-positioned himself near the door. That had been close, and from what he could deduce, Parker was still slightly suspicious. However, maybe that could work to his advantage once Lestrade arrived. _If _he arrived.

Anyway, it was getting about time. Sherlock hadn't got everything from the conversation in the basement, but he'd heard enough to come to the conclusion that they were already contemplating ways to eliminate John. Lestrade should better come quickly.

Noiselessly, but nervously, Sherlock got back to the front door. From here, he'd still hear when the situation inside became critical, but he'd also be able to notice Lestrade's arrival earlier than standing directly behind the door to the basement. And as things seemed right now, every second could count.

There! That was the sound of a car, and now it was being turned off! If this wasn't a giant coincidence, it meant that Lestrade had finally arrived on the scene. Still, Sherlock wanted to be certain before acting. He glanced outside and saw two figures slowly and carefully coming towards the building. It was dark, but still the way Lestrade and Donovan walked was easily recognisable, to Sherlock anyway. [=Sherlock had no difficulties recognizing L's and D's way of moving, but other people might have difficulties]

He took a few steps back from the front door and towards the tin he had tipped over earlier. The noise wasn't going to fool John's adversary a second time, and that was exactly what Sherlock was counting on as he gave it a kick.

* * *

"That's it," Sergeant Donovan said, pointing to the block of flats on the other side of the street. They got out of the car and looked around. There was nobody here. The whole street seemed to be deserted. It seemed unreal to suppose that a crime was going on. If their task had been to describe the situation on this surprisingly warm evening, their first idea probably wouldn't have been 'life and death situation'.

"And you're sure John Watson would only call if there was something serious going on," Donovan asked sarcastically.

"We'll see," Lestrade said simply. He wasn't keen on arguing with his colleague. He wasn't in a very splendid mood anyway. If it turned out that John really hadn't had a very good reason to send them here… Well…

They drew nearer to the house, slowly and carefully, watching their surroundings.

"There!"

A figure was running out of the house and towards them, closely followed by another one. However, before the first shadow had reached them, he doubled back and they heard him shout, "Don't let him escape, Lestrade!"

Lestrade, too perplexed to conceive what was going on, obeyed, which wasn't very difficult, considering that the second shadow ran almost directly into him.

"Cuff him!" he told Sergeant Donovan, while he himself hurried to get a hold of the first shadow.

Again, his task was an easy one since the shadow had stopped and was coming towards the little group.

"Put your hands up!" Lestrade commanded. After all, he didn't know who this fellow was. It definitely wasn't John; that much he could make out even in the darkness that surrounded them. But there had been something in that voice…

"Now, Lestrade, do we really have to do it that way?"

The Detective Inspector took a step back. Now he knew whom the voice belonged to, but that clearly couldn't be, he had to be mistaken.

"Who are you?"

"Come on, Lestrade, you know who I am."

Lestrade didn't answer at once. "But you're dead."

The shadow sighed. "Can't you people think of something more original to say?"

Although the shock was still there, Lestrade felt the annoyance take charge of him again. He didn't know what the hell Sherlock was doing here, but he damn sure would find out. "Now turn around."

Sherlock did as he was told, but apparently he still hadn't learned to keep quiet when he wasn't asked to open his mouth. "If I may suggest something," he said while Lestrade cuffed him, "it'd be wise on your part to hear me out before doing something stupid like arresting me. Oh, and John's probably still being held in the basement of that house."

"Just shut up, will you?" For Lestrade was definitely not going to think about Sherlock's presence before he could evaluate the situation they were still in. "Donovan?" he called his partner who had been watching the scene with the same amazement as his. "Take good care of those two fellows. I'll take a look inside."

Very carefully, he slowly made his way towards the basement. He didn't think there was any iminent danger – if there had been more criminals, they would have heard the the noise they'd made when Sherlock and that other guy were arrested outside and were most probably gone. Still, it was always wiser to be careful.

He could see light at the end of the hallway. Apparently, the suspects had brought lights with them for whatever they had wanted to do in this empty house, for the electricity certainly didn't work in here.

He found John on a chair, bound and gagged. Facing the door so he would immediately see if anyone entered, he released the gag. "Is there anybody here?"

"No, I think she just escaped." John was still breathing rapidly. He had tried to warn them about Irene Adler's escape, but she had definitely known what she'd been doing when she'd gagged him.

"She?"

"Irene Adler… I'm sorry, but would you mind?"

Lestrade became again aware of the bonds. "Oh, yeah. Sorry." While taking them off, he once more tried to make sense out of all this. He still didn't succeed.

"What's going on here?"

"You should ask Sherlock that."

_Oh, I definitely will_, Lestrade thought to himself. "How come he's alive?"

"You know, you should probably ask HIM that, too."

Lestrade nodded. That sounded reasonable.

* * *

"So!" Lestrade said when he and John joined Sergeant Donovan, Sherlock and the apparent criminal. "I suggest we all have a ride to headquarters and have a little chat."

"Why?"

Lestrade considered if maybe he was accidentally talking Chinese before it occurred to him that he was talking to Sherlock Holmes and that thus he was predestined to either doubt the functioning of Sherlock's brain or to feel like an idiot. And experience strongly suggested the latter. "So you can tell us what's going on here!"

"Well, I hardly think we'll have to go to headquarters for that. It's pretty simple: I sent you a text from John's mobile so you'd come here and when I saw you arrive I tipped over a tin, again, to make Mr Parker here follow me so you could arrest him." He pointed to the man in Sergeant Donovan's custody.

Lestrade still didn't know if it was he or Sherlock, but he was still confused. "Why should we arrest him? What's he done?"

Sherlock looked at them surprised. "He attacked, bound and gagged a civilian, without being threatened, if I may add this assumption, and last time I checked the arbitrary violence against a fellow subject within the borders of the United Kingdom was a crime."

"Well, when did you last check, before or after your death?"

"Very funny, Sergeant Donovan –"

But before Sherlock could go on, he was interrupted by a rather upset John. "Wait – you planned this? He was supposed kidnap me so that they could arrest him?"

"I'm sorry, but how could I have planned it? Did I ask you to come here?"

"Well, not directly –"

"So I guess that settles it," Sherlock cut him off, "he's all yours, Lestrade – unless it's not a crime anymore to hold a man against his will?"

Lestrade took a deep breath and decided not to get any more irritated with Sherlock. "Okay, so we should arrest him, fair enough. But we've got to arrest you, too!"

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows. "Why's that?"

"What kind of detective do you think you are if you've never heard of fraud? Not to mention the crimes themselves that you committed to show off?" Sergeant Donovan seemed to slowly get back into her usual war with Sherlock.

Sherlock also jumped straight back in, "Okay, I know this is news to you because you have difficulties seeing things that are not main-stream opinion, but I'm not actually a fraud."

"Oh, so you're dead? What nice news!"

And as it had always been, it was Lestrade that kept them from scratching each other's eyes out. "Okay, okay, stop it, both of you." He turned to Sherlock. "She's right, however, you did fake your death, and also all those cases and the matter regarding that actor Brook –"

"He was _not_ an actor!"

"Anyway, it's still an open case, so whether you like it or not, you have to come with us."

"That sounds very appealing," Sherlock said in his mocking tone, "but I'm afraid I have to refuse."

Could Sherlock really be so shameless? "That wasn't a suggestion!"

"Alright, for the sake of argument let's assume you _were_ asking, for in that case I will only have to politely refuse your offer instead of resisting law enforcement."

"What about you do neither and just come with us?"

"Was _that _a suggestion?"

"No, for God's sake! Now get into the car! _Now!"_

"Okay, listen," Sherlock said, now very earnestly, "this man is known as Oscar Parker, a high profile criminal and one of Moriarty's," – with a condescending look at Donovan he added – "or _Richard Brook's_ most faithful confederates. You will find proof if you search his flat."

"Alright, we'll do that and investigate the matter while you stay put in a cell at the police station."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "Okay, what about if we talked about this somewhere else?"

"That's an excellent plan! What about the interview rooms in Scotland Yard?"

"Lestrade – please."

Lestrade looked at him. He wasn't very familiar with this expression of Sherlock's, but still he was able to detect that the man was begging. And if Sherlock was begging there must probably be good reasons for him to do what he was doing. He seemed to have a plan.

He'd better.

"Sergeant Donovan, get this man into the car. "

"But – "

"_Now!"_

He waited until they were out of listening range. "Now what is this about?"

"Would you mind?" Sherlock asked, turning slightly and holding his cuffed hands towards the inspector.

Lestrade looked at them, pondering for a moment. "Fine," he muttered eventually, releasing him of the cuffs. This was easier and faster than getting into another argument with the man. After all, this was Sherlock. He wasn't going to run away. Hopefully.

"Now, what's going on?"

"There's still one of Moriarty's confederates missing, a Sebastian Moran," Sherlock now readily explained. "With Moriarty alive, I would consider him the second most dangerous man in England. You may imagine his rank on the list now [with Moriarty dead]."

"So you want us to arrest this Moran fellow."

The sarcasm with which Sherlock spoke wasn't really made to lighten Lestrade's mood, "Oh sure, I would love it if you could do that, the only problem is that you _can't_, or do you happen to have anything on him? Oh, no? Now what a surprise!"

"Okay, okay, I got it. Now if we're not going to arrest him, what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. You just have to keep Parker out of my way while I try to make a case against Moran, thus also proving that Moriarty's figure of Richard Brooks has been a fake and not me."

"I'm supposed to arrest Parker and let you go. You are kidding, right?"

"This isn't really the time for jokes."

"Alright, Sherlock, now listen closely - I cannot possibly do this. There's a case against you, and you have to be investigated. I can't just let you go and follow some hunch."

"Lestrade, you have to trust me."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm begging you."

There, Sherlock finally had Lestrade's attention. He tried to read his facial expression. Usually he was pretty good at it, but with Sherlock Holmes one never knew. Still, Lestrade was fairly certain that he could detect a genuine, intense plea in his face. Sherlock seemed to have a plan, and since Lestrade had never believed in him being a fraud, it would perhaps really be best to let him go...

"Alright," he sighed. "But you have to stay available to me somehow."

"Sure. Shall I give you my address or should we stay in contact via my Facebook page? I'm supposed to be dead, Lestrade. And I would prefer a bit of secrecy during the next couple of days as I don't want my perceived state of being to become reality."

Lestrade groaned exasperatedly. Why did Sherlock always have to get his way? "Fine. I'm giving you 48 hours before I inform the authorities and we start a manhunt, so you'd better hurry."

He turned to go, but was held back by John's voice. "Wait! What about Irene Adler?"

Sherlock turned to him surprised. "Irene Adler?"

"Yes, she was with this Parker guy."

Sherlock shook his head. "My dear John, she's not even in Europe!"

Lestrade frowned. He had always thought of John as a reliable witness, in any case certainly not someone prone to hallucinations. But Sherlock was rather reliable, too. "So you didn't see this Irene Adler, Sherlock?"

"Of course not. Last time I saw her she was in Argentina."

John didn't give up. "But if you had the time to come here, she could have come here as well."

"I highly doubt that. She got herself into some entanglement with the Argentine police when she was acting under the name of Roswita Calvarez."

"But I saw her!"

"We'll check that," intervened Lestrade.

"If you want to waste your time, go ahead," Sherlock said before he disappeared into the night.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, but of course it was in vain. At least this way he didn't have to continue pondering over the question if it was really wise not to arrest Sherlock yet.

"All right," he sighed, feeling as exhausted as he hadn't felt for a year. "You'll have to come to the Yard tomorrow so we can take your statement, John. But for now I think it's best if we all get some rest. Or shall we take you to the hospital to get you checked out?"

"No, I'll be fine, I guess, thanks."

"Alright, but if you start feeling dizzy or –"

"I'm a doctor, Greg, I think I've got this."

"Alright. So… Have a good night."

He turned to Sergeant Donovan, prepared for another argument, leaving John behind.

* * *

After Lestrade was gone, John turned around, a bit insecure. What was he supposed to do now?

"Sherlock?" No answer. "Sherlock!"

"You don't have to shout."

John flinched violently and nearly dislocated his neck when he turned his head towards the voice directly next to his ear. "For God's sake, was that necessary?"

"So you'd stop shouting? Certainly."

John shook his head. There was no point arguing with Sherlock Holmes. Quite confused, he watched Sherlock as he put on his shoes, but there were more important questions to be asked than why the hell Sherlock was walking through the night in his socks. "All right, so what are we going to do now?"

"Nothing. There is no 'we'."

John frowned. "Are you getting nasty again?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Do you really not see? That was the whole point!"

"I'm sorry?" John asked when Sherlock didn't show any intention of explaining himself.

There was a faint smile around Sherlock's mouth that in the darkness was more audible than visible. "You too?" Then he became his matter-of-fact self again. "The plan was to make you angry with me in order to keep you from joining the investigation."

"But why?" John was confused and… yes, a little hurt. Didn't Sherlock trust him anymore?

Now it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "Well, one, I was afraid that Parker might spot you at Thames Road, get nervous and escape before Lestrade could arrest him and, let's see, two – you do realise that there are people who want to destroy me and who might very well use you as leverage?"

"Well, maybe _you_ didn't realise that it's my decision whether I want to endanger myself or not."

"You're not helping me if I've got to rescue you."

John swallowed involuntarily. That had hit home.

"You could have just asked me to stay out of it," he said calmly.

"Right, and you would have readily consented."

A smile, though not an altogether happy one, crept onto John's face. "One nil for Sherlock Holmes! Why does that not surprise me?"

"So you're going to stay out of this from now on?"

"You can't ask that of me."

Sherlock sighed. "I saw it coming." He stood up. "So what are you waiting for? It's one all. Let's go!"


	6. Chapter 5

Thanks to Sky Writes for your kind words! :)

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"Where are we going?" John asked as they walked down the road.

"Mycroft."

John, utterly surprised, tried to read something from Sherlock's features, which was a bit more difficult than usual because the investigator had again turned up his collar.

"Who are you and what have you done with the man who'd rather cut off his tongue before going to his brother to ask him for a favour?"

"We're in a very delicate situation and have to deal with a very dangerous and cunning man. We should use all the resources we can get."

He sounded as if that was all he was going to say about that matter, so John fell silent.

But not for long. "Does he know you're alive?"

"Not yet."

"Shouldn't you tell him before you… you know… ring his bell?"

"Why?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Well, he's your brother and he thinks you're dead. It _might_ be a bit of a shock to him. At least you could be a bit more sensitive than… than you usually are." _And definitely more sensitive than some hours ago in my flat,_ he added to himself.

Sherlock snorted. "You should have realised by now that Mycroft is not like that."

John wanted to disagree but on the one hand, he wasn't that sure about Mycroft's emotional state himself, and on the other, he sensed that Sherlock wanted to say something else.

He wasn't mistaken. "You know what he told me during the Adler case, when we thought she was dead? He said that caring is not an advantage. He's right. And I can guarantee you that he's rational enough to stick to his word."

Still, John wasn't sure about that. Mycroft was definitely a person who knew how to control his emotions, but he was fairly certain that at the time Mycroft had told Sherlock that not caring was better only to make it easier for him to cope with the death of his… friend/lover/significant other or whatever their relationship might have been.

"Anyway, there's no time for sentimental considerations," Sherlock ended the argument.

They didn't say anything for a while and just walked through streets and alleys John had never seen before. He waited for Sherlock to explain his plan, but it occurred to him that he might be waiting for that to happen for a very long time. However, he didn't want to ask too many questions, as he knew from experience that this sort of thing tended to render Sherlock both irritated and arrogant, in short unbearable, so he tried the only alternative he could think of: provocation. "You know, you were wrong about Irene Adler. I saw her, she's an accomplice of Parker."

"John, please, of course she was there!" And his plan worked. "You do realise that she's a part of this, don't you?"

"Uh… I'm not sure I do."

He sighed. "All right. Since there's no point in trying to keep you out of this anymore, you might as well know the key facts. So, as I thought you had worked it out by now, Irene is not Parker's accomplice, but mine."

John frowned. Had he just used the woman's first name? "Irene, huh?"

"Although it's none of your business, you might as well know that we had enough time to get to know each other well enough to use first names. Her help was very useful to me."

"So you knew that she wasn't in that witness protection scheme in America? And that she was alive? How?"

John wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a smile in Sherlock's voice when he answered, "That's one you may figure out by yourself."

John frowned and told himself that he might rather not think too much about the relationship between 'Irene' and Sherlock. "So what have you been up to since… you know, for the past year?" he asked instead.

"Well, in short, I worked on my plan to catch Moriarty's confederates."

John waited, but evidently that was everything Sherlock was ready to offer. "Okay, and in the slightly longer version?"

"All right then." He took the deep breath that was necessary for his following monologue. "After the first arrangements to keep me out of the view were made, I had to get out of the country, which created a good possibility to team up, as one might put it, with Irene who was very helpful in gathering information about the social construct of Moriarty's most loyal friends and clients, one of which you had the rather doubtful pleasure of meeting tonight."

John frowned. "That wasn't really much longer, but it did contain more information, so all right. And what about Parker and Moran?"

"They're the only ones left from Moriarty's confidantes, we were able to eliminate the others."

"Eliminate as in…?"

"Arrest, no reason to worry."

John couldn't but breathe a small sigh of relief. "Okay, and now Moran's the last one left."

Sherlock nodded gravely. "Not only the last, but also the hardest. He was Moriarty's closest friend, partially because their souls were of a similar shade of black. All the other confederates I was able to link to other crimes so that they could be arrested without it being essential to find a direct connection to Moriarty. But Moran is too prudent for that."

"How come I've never heard of him?"

"You'd never heard about Moriarty before he came in contact with us either, had you?"

"No, I guess you've got a point there," John muttered and once more thought about how scarily overwhelming the notion of one sole super-villain had been to him at that time.

"So, how was it supposed to work, Parker's arrest? Did you really use me as a decoy?" He could hardly imagine it, but after tonight's events, anything seemed possible.

But Sherlock said no. "Of course not. As you might remember, I didn't even want you to join this investigation, and I certainly didn't want you to play superhero and get yourself assaulted. I did, however, know that the best way of removing Parker from the game was to make him careless. We feared he might have learned I was alive since he was in contact with another accomplice of Moriarty who we made the French Police arrest a couple of days ago. So Irene contacted him and told him I was alive, that the two of us had parted ways and that, re-joining Moriarty's gang, she wanted to team up with him to kill me. We were a bit worried he might not believe her, but after all, she can be quite convincing and we were also rather sure that Parker would set aside any caution once he got the chance of getting to me. Fortunately, he hadn't known about me being alive before, so Moran with all probability doesn't know about it. For out of all of Moriarty's confederates, Parker is the only one he's ever been in contact with, and Irene made certain Parker had no contact with Moran since he knew about my faked death."

John was still quite stunned about Sherlock's hitherto unknown use of the word 'we', but he managed to throw in a, "Why does Parker want to kill you so badly?"

"Well, I can hardly be considered a friend of his. A couple of years ago, I helped Scotland Yard arrest him. He's a contract killer. A pretty unpleasant one, likes to play with his prey before he gives them the _coup de grâce_. You may imagine what they looked like when they were found. We were counting on his penchant for games, for if you hadn't shown up, I would have been in your position and then when Lestrade arrived, he would have caught Parker red-handed."

"Your plan was to let yourself be tortured by this maniac," John remarked dryly in order to hide his horror. "And I've always tended to think of you as fairly clever."

Sherlock grinned in amusement. "We didn't have that many alternatives," he explained. "We had to act quickly before Parker could notify Moran. There was no time to prove his guilt in another matter, so we had to set up something for him and hope he would fall into our trap. Besides, it wasn't that risky, considering that Irene was there to prevent the worst."

"If you say so," John said for the sake of argument. He renounced on asking his companion if he was really sure he could rely on 'the woman' that much and decided to be just glad that everything had ended well.

They turned onto one of the bigger roads again and John had a slight idea about where they were. "There's still one thing," he said after some silence speaking a bit louder to drown out the traffic, "if Parker is a killer and you helped to get him arrested, how come he isn't in prison?"

"He escaped," said Sherlock simply. "That's not very difficult when you're close friends with a man like Jim Moriarty. Parker had worked for him several times before, so I guess Moriarty owed him this little favour."

"If you knew that, why didn't you prevent it?"

"I probably would have, if I had known it at the time. But back then, I could see no relation between the two of them. Well, _errare humanum est_, isn't it?"

John tried to smile, though he couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if Sherlock had realised such things in time. Maybe there would have been a chance of stopping Moriarty before all of this?

But there was no sense in pondering about it. The past was past, and they'd better take care that everything would go without problems in the foreseeable future.

They were now in a quiet neighbourhood; the very ideal of middle-class Britain. Sherlock came to a halt before a neat little row of terraced houses.

"And here we are!" he said with mock enthusiasm.

John was a bit disappointed. More than once, he had wondered where someone like Mycroft might live. He hadn't pictured it as a place that was as utterly ordinary as this, but considering the discretion he showed in his job, it somehow made sense.

"We're on time," Sherlock observed, glancing at his watch. "Just past midnight. The perfect time for Mycroft to have a ghostly apparition."


	7. Chapter 6

Thanks to the reviewers! :)

* * *

**Chapter 6**

John looked up at the apparently white façade that was only lit by the moonlight and a streetlamp across the street. Inside, everything was dark.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked his companion. "He seems to be asleep."

Sherlock sighed in despair. "Asleep! John! We've only got hours to prove that Moran's a criminal. Do you really think we should not ask for the only help available because Mycroft might be _asleep_?!"

John didn't bother to answer. The different usage of a word Sherlock had used a few minutes before had more significance to him. "I'm sorry, was that a 'we'?" he asked with mock innocence.

"Well, since my plan of keeping you out of this didn't work, you might as well join me," Sherlock responded dryly, but John didn't let him get away that easily.

"Are you saying you need me?"

"Only if you stop asking such questions."

John grinned. Seemed as if he had finally won an argument with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had already rung the bell several times. Now a surprisingly awake voice came out of the intercom. "Who is this?"

"Good evening, Mycroft," Sherlock said, though he added after a glance at his watch, "Uh, no, good morning."

There was a moment of silence at the other end.

"Who is this?" the question came out of the intercom a second time.

"I thought you might recognise your own brother. Now would you mind opening the door for us?"

John's eyes sprang back and forth between the intercom and the door waiting for something to happen. How would Mycroft react? It was true that he was usually the master of his emotions, but Sherlock's funeral had shown that everything wasn't always usual when it concerned his brother. Moreover, Sherlock hadn't really chosen a gentle approach to deliver such delicate information.

The door opened and something happened that probably none of the three men in the dark entrance would have believed if they had been merely told: Mycroft stepped forward and embraced his brother. John watched them, stunned, and as his gaze fell upon the frown on Mycroft's face, he remembered again the pain in the older man's eyes the day of the funeral, a pain so immense that John had had to avert his gaze.

"Come on in," Mycroft said in a very low voice once he'd released his brother and turned towards the house interior.

John watched Sherlock and tried to read his face, but whether sub-consciously or consciously, Sherlock evaded his eyes. Only he thought he saw something like surprise in his features. In any case he could see that the nonchalant detective with the mocking attitude towards his brother's feelings was gone.

Mycroft led them into a small living room. It was nicely furnished, but still there was something that made John feel uncomfortable. It took him some moments to realize what it was: the room's lack of personality, in fact, of the whole house. There were no pictures on the walls or on the shelves, nothing that appeared to be a gift of someone close to him, no childhood-souvenirs or souvenirs from holiday trips – in short, nothing to allow drawing any conclusions on the personality of the house's owner. John actually found the effect rather creepy.

Mycroft's action, however, suggested more than his furnishings did that he was a human being rather than a robot, because he went directly towards the sideboard and poured himself a pretty generous glass of brandy. He gulped it down in one go, waited a moment, bowing his head, and then turned to face them.

"What is this about?" His voice was still somewhat subdued.

"We need your help." Sherlock's tone made John look at him and wonder what might be going on behind that troubled forehead. He couldn't really tell, the other man's face was expressionless. Something seemed to be bothering him. Of course it might be the fact that according to his story, his life was still hanging by a thread, but John thought that Sherlock was even more taciturn than usual since they had entered the house. Was it possible that Sherlock had a guilty conscience because he had – again! – been so cruel to someone who had thought him to be dead? Or was it just his unwillingness to ask for his brother's help?

"What kind of help?"

"We have to get to the last one of Moriarty's confederates."

"And how am I supposed to help you with that?"

"Do you know a Sebastian Moran?"

Mycroft's answer came in an unusually unnerved tone, "Oh Lord, yes."

"Okay, you got me interested."

"There are no hard facts I could give you about him. I simply find him a rather difficult person being with."

"Really? You surprise me. I thought you two were very much alike."

"What on Earth makes you –?" He stopped short and recovered something of his old coolness. "Never mind; don't tell me. So what about Colonel Moran?"

"Colonel?" John asked surprised. "As in army, that colonel?"

Sherlock gave him a quick glance. "Exactly. That's why you, Mycroft, have to get us to the army headquarters at Tidworth."

Mycroft was dumbfounded for a moment. "You know," he then said, "I am so glad that you cannot possibly be serious."

Sherlock also hesitated a moment before he spoke, "I really didn't want to go there, but don't you think you owe me that little favour, considering that I probably wouldn't be in this spot if it hadn't been for you?"

This time, it took Mycroft even longer to answer. His voice became very low. "Seriously, guilt? Do we really have to go there?"

"It seems so."

Mycroft sighed, but it wasn't the annoyed sigh John knew from the days before his brother's 'death', the sigh that brought to mind their sibling rivalry. This time it was different, much sadder, much more earnest.

Still, despite the melancholy that left its mark in all his gestures and words, Mycroft had not yet lost the sharpness of his mind. "Why would you need to go there?"

"Do you remember the Bruce-Partington-Programme?"

"You certainly mean that as a rhetorical question?"

"I do. Now, if Colonel Moran happened to have a copy of the plans of said programme, wouldn't that be an indication that he were involved in criminal affairs?"

Mycroft didn't answer at once. "Not necessarily," he then said. "He might have good reasons to possess them."

"He might, but you would know about it if they were legal reasons."

"Perhaps," Mycroft said, but the faint smile that played around his lips revealed that Sherlock was right. "But even _if_ he had the plans and _if_ he weren't supposed to have them, there would still be no use in you searching his office in Tidworth. Anything you might find couldn't be used for the investigation, let alone in court."

"If you thought it was my plan to steal the plans from his office you must have a really low opinion of me."

Little be little, Mycroft was (understandably) regaining some of his former impatience. "So what is it that you intend to do?"

Sherlock sighed and there was something of his old nonchalant arrogance in his manner. "Moran plans to sell the copy. Very soon. There must be documents about the time, place and the other party of the 'deal' somewhere in his office."

"What makes you so sure about that?"

"He's got a wife. A very nosy one."

John waited for him to continue, but since Mycroft nodded slowly with understanding, Sherlock seemed inclined to believe that there were no more words necessary. "Uh… so?" he therefore felt forced to ask.

"So," Sherlock explained, "the office is the only place for him to hide information. Or in any case the only possibility that won't draw his wife's suspicion onto him."

"But what if he doesn't have any written information about his criminal activities at all? Or if he doesn't hide it from his wife?"

"Neither he nor she is the type for that. And there must be some written information in his office. It's not only the Bruce-Partington-Plans; Colonel Moran is involved with all kind of information dealing. He must maintain an overview of all his activities somehow."

"Still, John seems to have a valid point there, Sherlock. It seems rather a stretch to presume that Moran should have evidence of his guilt right there in his office."

"It's our best chance," Sherlock argued. "Besides, Moran's office is one of the most secure places in England. He'd hardly be risking much to hide something there."

Instinctively, Mycroft and John exchanged a concerned look that revealed their mutual worry for Sherlock. If hoping to find evidence in Moran's office at an army headquarters was his best chance, he really had to be desperate.

"Is there really nothing else you could do to prove Moran's guilt?"

"No, I'm afraid to disappoint you, Mycroft." The answer came rather cockily. "Moran's very careful. You may believe that I exhausted all other possibilities before I came to you."

"I wonder what that reveals about us."

"Don't go there. Anyway, the bottom line is this: if I fail tonight in breaking into Moran's office, my chances of proving my innocence are very thin. So will you help me?"

Mycroft swallowed, but said, "Of course. I'll notify the guards that someone will be arriving in my name. They won't ask questions. But I'm afraid I can only get you access to the building, not to Moran's office itself."

An ironic smile played on Sherlock's lips. "Don't worry, that's something I can take care of myself."

Mycroft nodded gravely. "Alright then. If this is really the only chance –"

"It is, trust me. Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

Another grave nod. "I understand." A sigh. "Sherlock –"

"Don't," he interrupted him. "I'm sure you did what you had to do."

"Still…"

"It'll be fine." Sherlock's words might have been a consolation, but the cold tone in which they were delivered did little to console Mycroft and the interruption was merely a way to stop his talking, not assuage his guilt.

"I hope so. Good luck. And, Sherlock? Please keep me informed."

"I will."

And with that, John and Sherlock left him.


	8. Chapter 7

Thanks to Sky Writes :)

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"So how did you know?" John asked as they hurried to… wherever. Maybe that was the question he would chose to ask later, but he hadn't decided yet. There were so many questions he needed an answer for, and after all, it wasn't difficult to guess that they were probably headed for Tidworth. And he was going to find out anyway.

"Know what?"

"That… well… that it was Mycroft who gave you away. Who told Moriarty your whole life story so that he had enough facts to make the lie about you being a fraud seem true."

"Well, there weren't many options, were there?"

"It could have been me."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Why's that ridiculous? If Moriarty had offered me enough money, maybe –"

"Do you remember your first encounter with Mycroft?" Sherlock cut him off. "You told me that he had offered you money to spy on me. You hadn't known me for more than a day then, still you couldn't do what to you seemed to be a betrayal. Face it, John, you're a soldier. You're trained to be loyal. Besides, Moriarty must have known things that even you probably couldn't know about me."

John was silent for a moment, also because he wanted to savour the words he had just heard. Sherlock trusted him. Still, there was something nagging inside him. "What about Mycroft?" It was true, his brother had given Sherlock away, but that didn't change the fact that Mycroft was genuinely sorry for what he had done to Sherlock.

"What about him?"

John shuddered involuntarily. He had seldom heard Sherlock speak in such an icy voice. "Well, you know, are you… mad at him for… I don't know, betraying you?"

"Mycroft's job compels him to take on much responsibility," Sherlock answered somewhat evasively. It didn't elude John either that the words didn't really sound how the man normally sounded.

"So you _are_ mad at him."

"I'm sure he did what he had to do. Blabbing to Moriarty about my life perhaps saved dozens of lives, who knows? I probably would have done the same thing."

John looked at him doubtfully. He didn't know whether the benefits would have outweighed the complete destruction of one's own brother, but he definitely knew that Mycroft – no matter if he still thought he had had no chance or not – utterly blamed himself for what he'd done.

An hour and a half later, they got off the train at Tidworth. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning and John was far from being surprised to see nothing but deserted roads and dark buildings. The whole world seemed to be asleep, unaware of the strange events that had taken place that night.

John himself couldn't think of sleep. It was true that he was exhausted, but after what had happened tonight and considering what might still happen, the adrenaline in his body was keeping him at a certain level of feverish alertness. John was afraid though, that the sharpness of his mind might have seen better days, even better nights. However, he forced himself to keep himself alert. He wouldn't let Sherlock down, not tonight, when he probably needed him more than ever.

As expected, there were guards at the entrance to the army headquarters and John thought that it had been a good thing Sherlock had asked for Mycroft's help. They would never have been able to get into this secure complex on their own. At least John could see no way as to how they could have got in _and _out in one piece.

John didn't know what Mycroft had told the guards, but whatever he'd said, it worked. They didn't ask any questions, just as Mycroft had predicted. He had to be really powerful, John thought. _And guilt-ridden_, a voice in his mind said before he concentrated again on what they were doing.

They didn't encounter anyone on their way through the maze that was the headquarters. John tried to get a fix of their position in the building complex, but soon he was sure that without Sherlock he'd be lost. If everything hadn't been so utterly quiet around them, he might have asked him how the hell he knew where they were or which corridors and stairs they had to take to get to Moran's office, but as things were, it didn't seem wise to chit-chat.

"Here we are," Sherlock said after what seemed to have been an eternity.

John looked at the door, then at Sherlock. "What now?" There was a little screen next to the door. This office was obviously secured by more than a normal key.

Sherlock however didn't seem disturbed or even surprised by it. "Now," he said, "we'll use this." And he drew out a little card from the pocket of his coat.

John watched both surprised and confused as his friend held the card in front of the screen and with a low _beep_ the door opened.

"Where did you get this from?" John asked, as usual amazed by Sherlock's preparedness.

"I have my methods," he said.

"Which are?"

"Luckily, Moran likes prostitutes. And luckily, he visits them directly after work to hide the fact from his wife. A very charming helping hand retrieved the card from his chest pocket and I had an hour and a half to copy it while Moran amused himself. It was a bit of a rush, but the card got back in time."

John wasn't sure if he should be intimidated by the professional, spy-like methods of his friend or relieved because Sherlock obviously was working to a plan. In the end he decided to direct his attention to the business that was lying ahead of them.

The fittings of the office didn't present much of a surprise: a big, dark wooden desk in front of the window, one wooden chair behind it and two in front, wooden filing cabinets against the wall on one side and on the other a bookshelf.

Sherlock went straight to the desk and before John had closed the door, he had already torn open the drawers and was hurriedly sifting through the documents.

John was paralysed with surprise, even dismay, for a moment. What had become of the cold-blooded, systematic Sherlock? This behaviour was impulsive, or in other words stupid. For the haphazard way that Sherlock was going through Moran's things not only reduced their chances of finding something, but also increased the risk that Moran would realize in the morning that his office had been searched. The look on Mycroft's face a few hours earlier came once again to John's mind: they both had understood then that it couldn't be good that Sherlock was clinging so fervently to the hope of finding evidence in this office. His search method confirmed John's earlier suspicion; Sherlock really had to be desperate.

One more reason for John to remain calm.

With a diligence that was usually characteristic of Sherlock, he once more inspected the documents and notes on the desk. Most of them he recognised as military documents and it was a bit difficult for him to suppress his curiosity and ignore those documents and instead concentrate on the problem at hand.

He didn't have to look for very long to find something out of the ordinary. Right on the desk, amongst a little pile of small notes, he found a scrap of paper that had on it:

_12/3 1300 7 David meets Jesus_

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

John flinched slightly at the aggressive tone. "I think I've found something."

At once Sherlock was next to him, reading the short note. "That's it. Well done, John. We can go. Put it back where it was."

John obeyed, rather confused, while Sherlock put everything else back in order.

"I'm sorry," he finally asked, "no doubt I must be stupid, but I can't see –"

"We've got to go now. We mustn't miss the next train."

With that, he rushed out of the door. John shook his head, but followed. There he was again, something more like the old Sherlock: an energetic dog that had taken up a scent.

They arrived just in time to catch a train back to London. John fell on a seat and fought the desire to lay his head back and sleep, because one, he wanted to support Sherlock, and two, there were still unanswered questions.

"So – what about the riddle?"

Sherlock gave him a frown. "What riddle?"

It struck John that Sherlock didn't seem tired at all. After all those years he still found it amazing how sharp and alert Sherlock was whenever his mind was occupied.

"_That _riddle. That gibberish about… Jesus and… David."

"Oh, _that._ Well, John, that was hardly a riddle, more of a reminder. You might want to know that Sebastian Moran grew up in a very pious family, so I guess the association with 'Jesus' and 'Cross' suggested itself to him. Jesus was a king, just as biblical David was, so we've got the meeting-point we're looking for: King's Cross. The day has to be the 12th of March, in other words today. Because if someone makes an appointment with somebody, it's more likely that they first agree on a date than on a time. Besides, '1300' can hardly be a date, so that tells us the time to be there, one pm, as you as someone with a military history could undoubtedly figure out easily. Then there's the '7' that with all probability tells us which platform, and undoubtedly, it was written before King's Cross because for most people it's easier to remember a specific name than a specific number."

Okay, now he could see it, too. "But why encode the message at all?"

"Because Moran's careful. If someone saw the note, they would probably consider it nonsense and not pay any attention to it. A definite time and place is more suspicious or at least leads to uncomfortable questions. And if someone got interested in the note, it would be harder for them to find out what everything is about when they don't know where to go. Now, was that it or do you still have questions?"

"I do," John said, ignoring Sherlock's rather annoyed tone. "Since when do _you _know the Bible?"

"2006."

John looked at him with confusion, but Sherlock didn't seem to think that an explanation was necessary. "You don't care to elaborate on that?"

"Howard Carter," Sherlock said. "A serial killer, religiously motivated, literally went by the book, in that case the Bible. Pretended to be the 'big Redeemer' and eliminated people who had committed sins, drawing parallels to biblical persons, inter alia King David."

John grinned, he just couldn't help it, this was too good. "You had to read the whole Bible just to catch a serial killer?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I didn't read the whole book."

"Oh boy," John murmured, still grinning, "sometimes I really wonder what they would have done with you in the Middle-Ages."


	9. Chapter 8

And again, thanks to Sky Writes :)

Hope you like it.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

John awoke very slowly. The first thing he noticed was that he had a headache. It had to be a terrible one. It was as if something was hammering and pounding against his brain. He even thought he could hear the rattle…

He _could _hear the rattle, and after some moments, he realized that he hadn't gone crazy, but that he was simply sitting on a train.

He sat up in his seat and looked around. He was alone. Uh-oh. That was not good. Wasn't Sherlock supposed to be here? Or had all that merely been a dream? And if that was so – how had he ended up here, on a train, in the middle of the night? Maybe he had hallucinated all of it, maybe he _was_ going crazy –

"Hurry up, we've got to get off the train."

John flinched violently, then couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Sherlock was standing in front of him. He hadn't been hallucinating.

Still quite drowsy and with the feeling that he was going to fall asleep at any moment, he followed Sherlock to the doors of the train. It had hardly stopped when they jumped off and were hurrying through a very slowly awakening London.

"Where are we going?"

"You're going home. To bed."

John frowned. When had Sherlock become so patronising? "I don't think so."

"Then you're mistaken."

"Sherlock –"

"I need you sharp and alert at one o'clock, so please do what I say."

John was quite stunned. Had Sherlock said 'please'? Wow. Okay. That was a certain way of getting him to change his mind. And of course Sherlock's promise to let him help him later that day wasn't bad either.

"You want me to accompany you to King's Cross?"

"I want you to meet me there at half past twelve. Now get some rest."

And without a further word, he turned sharply into a side street and after a few moments he was gone.

John was awakened at half past nine by the ring of his mobile. He looked at the display rather sleepily. Unknown number.

"Who is this?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

In an instant, John was sitting upright in his bed and all his sleepiness was gone. Mycroft Holmes was calling him? On his _phone_? What had become of all those secret and most inconvenient meeting arrangements?

"Are there any developments?" Mycroft asked, and John could detect sincere worry in the voice of Sherlock's elder brother.

"You could say so," John answered evasively while he was thinking rapidly and hard. He wasn't sure what Sherlock would want him to reveal to Mycroft. After all, Sherlock was currently placing some importance on secrecy. But then it was Mycroft, what harm could there be in telling him what was going on?

"We found a note in Moran's office. Sherlock thinks that the Bruce-Partington Plans will be handed over today at one o'clock at King's Cross."

"Where exactly?"

"Platform 7, but you don't intend coming, do you?" That would be most extraordinary behaviour for Mycroft Holmes, but then again, nothing was ordinary with this case.

"We'll see," said Mycroft vacuously and rang off.

John arrived at King's Cross a little past twelve o'clock. He knew he was half an hour early to meet Sherlock, but he just hadn't been able to stay in his flat without doing anything any longer.

He wondered where he was supposed to meet him. Sherlock hadn't told him. But it seemed natural to wait for him at Platform 7. And who knew, maybe Sherlock was already there and they could talk his plan through. Provided he _had_ a plan.

John didn't reach Platform 7, though. Before he got there, a young woman approached him. She looked a bit ragged, her clothes were old and a bit too big for her**,** and she obviously hadn't washed her hair in quite a while. It wasn't very difficult for John to deduce that she was a homeless person**,** and it at once occurred to him that Sherlock might have sent her to him.

She smiled at him. "John Watson?" she asked**,** and John nodded. She put a piece of paper into his hand and before John could say or ask anything more, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

As John unfolded the paper, he recognised Sherlock's handwriting. _You might be followed_, the note said, and John at once looked up to glance around, before – a bit too late – it occurred to him that he probably shouldn't show any observers that he was looking for them. So he suppressed the urge to examine his surroundings, but the unpleasant feeling of something moving behind his back remained.

He tried not to think about it, but went on reading: _Go to the men's toilets,_ _wait there five minutes. If I don't contact you again, go to Platform 7._

John briefly considered the possibility that this message was a trick. He found it very unlikely; it was very much like Sherlock's style. Still, the stakes were high enough not to take risks. He would follow the instructions – but he sure as hell would be on his guard.

As he moved towards the toilets, he, as discreetly as he could, watched his surroundings. He also kept an eye out for Sherlock. As things were standing, his friend would probably not come openly, but in some disguise. But John told himself that if he was looking for him with that supposition in mind, he might very well spot him.

All his muscles were tense when he opened the door to the men's toilets. After all, the message might still have been a trick, maybe a trap, although that was probably stretching it a bit.

It seemed as though no one was here; one man was just leaving as John entered. The former soldier, prepared for anything, quickly searched the stalls. His first impression proved to be right: there was nobody here except for himself.

He uttered a small sigh of relief. He hoped Sherlock would come. Not only did it seem easier for him to accompany Sherlock instead of merely following his orders – especially considering that he had no idea of his friend's plans and didn't know how to react if something unexpected happened –, but moreover a continuation of this extreme secrecy would mean that things surely wouldn't go as smoothly as they could.

Nervously, he waited for something to happen, as men came in and out of the small space. He hated this. He hated not being able to do anything, or even _know_ anything. What was he going to do if something went wrong given that he didn't know if his actions would ruin Sherlock's plans even further? And would he even realise that something was going wrong in the first place? After all, he didn't have the slightest idea of how things were supposed to go. Did Sherlock want the handing over of the Bruce-Partington Plans to work or not? Did he want to catch or follow or just let escape the man that was going to hand them over?

John just wished that Sherlock could answer those questions… if only to himself.

Sherlock had positioned himself in a phone booth from where he could observe the passage that led down to the men's toilets. He had no difficulty spotting John as he went down there, but it was a bit more difficult to make out any possible followers. There was one man who had been the right distance from John to be following him unnoticed, but he came back out before John did and made his way to Platform 2 or 3, so it was rather unlikely that he was playing for their opponents' team. Still, Sherlock was determined to keep an eye out for him.

It was nearly ten minutes, not five, before John returned and made his way to Platform 7. Again, he couldn't detect any followers. Still, he wasn't going to risk anything. He wanted to observe for a little longer how things proceeded before arriving on the scene himself.

Platform 7 was long. John wasn't sure where he was supposed to position himself. It was true that from here, at the buffer stop, he could see everybody who stepped on this platform, but he would also be seen by the same people. Then again, he couldn't see from here what was going on at the far end of the platform. So, since he didn't know the people he was looking for, wouldn't it be better to position himself somewhere in the middle of the platform?

He was just looking down it to spot an appropriate watching point when he flinched violently.

"Hello, John," a voice directly behind him said and he whirled around.

"Hello, Mycroft," he managed to say after a moment.

"Is Sherlock not here?"

"He –" John began, but stopped short, thinking. "To be honest, I don't know." It was true, Sherlock could be anywhere. "But I guess it's most likely he's somewhere in the station."

"But you haven't seen him yet?"

"No… no indeed," John said and hurried to come up with a question himself. He didn't like this interrogative tone of Mycroft's. "So what are you doing here?"

"Observing," Mycroft said with his old nonchalance.

John was silent for a moment and looked down the platform again, before he turned to Mycroft. "Do you know anything about this? About what Sherlock's planning to do?"

The other man raised his eyebrows. "I would think you're supposed to know more about this business of Sherlock's than I am."

_Hopefully not, because I don't know anything, _John thought with some bitterness, but held his tongue.

"What do you think," he said at last when he still hadn't spotted Sherlock, "shouldn't we go to the middle of the platform so we can see better?"

"Do as you please."

John thought. Maybe it wasn't too bad splitting up, now that there were two of them. "Alright. So I'll go and you stay here."

He didn't wait for an answer and just hoped that Mycroft wouldn't mind remaining where he was. For he knew only too well that there was probably no one on Earth who could tell a Holmes brother what to do.

John watched closely the passers-by on Platform 7, and also every now and then the people on the other platforms who happened to look in their direction. But he couldn't find Sherlock among them.

Since John surmised that neither the buyer nor the seller in this deal were keen on showing their identity to each other. It seemed reasonable to suppose that they were in some way or another disguised, so John thought he could renounce on paying attention to those open-faced, clean-shaven businessmen in their immaculate suits. One could hardly disguise their own looks by such an appearance. So instead, John paid close attention to people with beards, or hats, or glasses, or turned-up collars, or anything that hid their face and maybe changed their stature. And since the buyer would probably be bringing the money with him, one of the two persons John was looking for was likely to be carrying some kind of bag with him.

Several times, he spotted someone who would fit the image John had made in his mind, but they were either getting on a train or meeting someone else from a train, or just not looking around to watch out for the counterpart of their deal.

Then, however, John saw someone. He nearly looked like a homeless person. He seemed to be rather old, his movements were slow, his clothes certainly weren't the newest and his white hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. Somewhere between Mycroft and himself, the rather old man lowered himself onto a seat in the middle of the platform. His chin sank on his chest and he looked quite exhausted, but when John took a harder and longer look at him, he thought he could see that the old man was observing his surroundings from the corners of his eye. He couldn't be sure from this distance, but he decided to keep an eye on him.

It was worth the trouble. Some minutes later, another elderly looking man came down the platform, very slowly, looking around. He too was wearing a beard, not white, like the other one's, but of a reddish brown, and he made a much more cultivated impression than the man with the ponytail. His small glasses, together with the short beard and the pretty old-fashioned hat, gave him the looks of a professor. He carried a brown leather-bag, also professor-style. When he approached the bench ponytail-man was sitting on, ponytail-man suddenly lifted his head, and from where John stood, it looked as if the two elderly men were gazing right into each other's eyes.

Slowly, the professor approached the bench and they exchanged some words which John couldn't hear, but he guessed they were making sure that they were talking to the right person. They talked for some seconds, then they shook hands and ponytail-man left – with the professor's bag! Now it was obvious that those two had been the men they had been waiting for. John glanced around quickly, but still, he couldn't see Sherlock anywhere. Had he caught this scene? Anyway, where was he?

But he couldn't think about it now. He had to do something. But what? Who was he supposed to follow, the buyer or the seller? The buyer had the plans, but the seller could possibly lead them to Moran. Now, also the buyer stood and John thought that he could postpone the question about which man to follow for some further seconds. He swiftly went back towards the end of Platform 7 where Mycroft was still casually standing.

John hastened his step, for ponytail-man had now reached the end of the platform and was turning to the left. If John wasn't careful, he might lose him among the travellers in the station.

Now, also the buyer had reached the end of the platform and all of a sudden Mycroft came to life: he stepped forward and blocked the professor's way. They were standing so close to each other now that it gave John a somewhat queasy feeling in his stomach. He stopped short thinking hard what he should do, but the next moment**,** he was rushing on. He had to follow ponytail-man. He could just hope that Mycroft had the professor under his control.

When he got around the corner, his heart stopped for an instant. He couldn't see the man. He was about to panic when – there! At the other end of the hall, turning towards Platform 2 and 3!

John started running. But he _had_ to catch ponytail-man, how was he supposed to escape from the platform? There was no way out!

When John reached the platform, he knew that he was mistaken. There was a way out. A very good one.

"Damn it!" he shouted and kicked against a rubbish bin as he watched the train move out of the station.


	10. Chapter 9

And again, thanks to Sky Writes! :)  
Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

It didn't take John long to make sure that ponytail-man must indeed have stepped on the train, for otherwise John would have spotted him on the platform. So he'd lost him. Great. Damn it, how could he have been so stupid?! Maybe, if he hadn't stopped that instant to watch Mycroft and that other man –

Mycroft!

A few seconds later, John was back at Platform 7. The two men were still standing very close to each other, but Mycroft had turned very pale.

"What's going on here?" John asked once he'd come close enough. They wouldn't lose another suspect due to his stupid hesitation today.

As John approached the two men, he could see that Mycroft had apparently just put something into the inner pocket of his jacket, but after another glance, he could see that it wasn't his jacket. It was a holster. Mycroft was carrying a gun.

"We should talk about this someplace else," said the professor in a low, hoarse voice. John looked from one man to the other, and when Mycroft consented, he too obeyed.

They followed the professor out of the station into a small pub on the other side of the street. They sat in the darkest corner the professor seemed to be able to find before anyone of them spoke another word.

"Would you now mind explaining what all this is supposed to mean?" Mycroft uttered in a low voice and somehow managed to also convey the suppressed anger in it.

Unsure, John again looked from one to another. Was it just him or was Mycroft talking to that man as though he knew him?

"Alright, after you've explained what you're doing here."

John's eyes widened. That wasn't the voice he'd heard earlier on Platform 7. And now, as he looked into the old man's eyes, there was hardly any doubt left. In the dim light, he couldn't tell from the colour with absolute certainty if the owner of those greenish-greyish-bluish eyes was indeed the man he, John, thought he was, but the expression was unmistakable. Still, he found it hard to believe.

"Sherlock?!"

His voice had been hardly audible, but still those unmistakable eyes told him to shut up. John shook his head. He knew that Sherlock was good at disguises. He'd often seen him going out in a disguise to do some research on a case, but he'd usually recognised him when he'd looked hard. This time, however, Sherlock had absolutely fooled him although John had suspected the whole professor's appearance to be merely a costume. However, he would never have suspected that it was his long-time friend wearing it.

"Now, Mycroft?"

Mycroft obviously didn't like this way of being interrogated, but he seemed to realise that it was the only way of learning something about Sherlock's plans. "I was… concerned," he said, and judging from his gaze, the table was immensely interesting.

"So concerned that you brought a handgun with you?"

Now Mycroft leaned forward again and looked his brother directly in the eyes. In fact, the two of them were so close to each other that their noses nearly touched.

"If you really want to hear it: yes."

"And since when do you walk around with a weapon?"

"Since my brother is caught up in problems that are so deep that his best chance is breaking into an army headquarters!"

Sherlock frowned (at least that's what John supposed he did, judging from the movements of the rubber mask) and looked at his brother with some insecurity. "You do realise –"

"Of course I do _now_! But that is what I thought, and forgive me that it wasn't my first idea that _this_ was your plan!"

As much as John tried to enjoy this brotherly fight, he couldn't help but feel helpless, as he always did when the brothers talked to each other. What was this about?

"I'm sorry but _what_ exactly was his plan?" he asked Mycroft. By now he had given up asking Sherlock that question.

"Well, obviously Sherlock only arranged all of this to find out if he could trust me or not."

John gazed at Sherlock, then at Mycroft, then at Sherlock again. "Is he right?"

"Of course I am right!" the elder Holmes brother said and now John could understand his irritation. "Sherlock has known all along where and when the handing-over would take place, because he was the buyer!"

John still didn't think he had understood it. "And why –"

"Yes, good question," Mycroft chimed in with a bittersweet voice and leaned forward again, looking into his brother's eyes. "Why did you think you had to mistrust me, Sherlock?"

"I can't tell you –"

Mycroft snorted, then he stood. "Good day, Sherlock."

John waited until Mycroft had left the pub before he turned to Sherlock again.

"You didn't really think he belonged to Moriarty's gang, did you?"

"Why not?"

John stared at him for a moment with incredulity then shook his head. "You…" He didn't know what to say. It was just absurd to think that Mycroft, the ever so correct Mycroft Holmes, could have joined a criminal organisation. And then to think he could have – deliberately – betrayed his brother…

"You didn't see him at your funeral," John said more earnestly again. "If you –"

"Oh yes, I did."

"You – _what?_ You were there?" John tried to imagine that for a moment, but he found it difficult to do so. He shook his head, lacking understanding. "How cold-blooded does a man have to be to attend his own funeral?"

"To be honest, it was rather instructive. For example, it helped me to strengthen the impression that I could trust _you_."

John stared at him with his mouth open, but somehow he couldn't get any words out. He tried for some seconds then stood up. "You –" He shook his head. He still couldn't find his words, so he left the pub.

Outside, John breathed deeply for some moments. Sherlock… He shook his head. He just couldn't understand. He'd never thought that Sherlock could really be so cold. He nearly regretted that he had indeed trusted Sherlock, that he'd never believed him to be a fraud. Because if _this_ was Sherlock's gratitude…

And yet, John felt that his anger was slowly ebbing away. Damn, why? He was right – he knew he was right! Sherlock was wrong in distrusting anyone who had believed in him and tried to help him. And still…

"Damn it!" John cursed and kicked against a cycle stand. He didn't want to let go of his anger, but at the same time he could somehow understand Sherlock. After all, he _had _been betrayed by almost everybody in some way and hardly anybody had believed in him. And if he was going to clear his name, wasn't it wise then to ascertain whether he could trust the people around him?

_Maybe_, John thought with a last sulky remainder of his anger, _but __I__ have never betrayed him. Not even…_

Yes. Not even now.

John knew what he had to do. His friend needed his help, more urgently than maybe ever before. And no matter how much of a jerk Sherlock was behaving like, they were still friends. And friends helped friends.

The 'professor' was still sitting at the table in the corner. He didn't look up until John had taken the seat he had vacated a few minutes earlier.

"So – what are we going to do now?"

John had decided on not talking about trust and mistrust again lest he should forget his resolution and leave Sherlock alone with his problems.

But his resolution was put to the test. Sherlock didn't answer. John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Shouldn't we inform Lestrade?" he proposed and his voice sounded suppressed with irritation. "Maybe he could help us to find the seller and maybe that would lead us to Moran."

Sherlock looked at him with an expression that he couldn't quite interpret, but there was definitely surprise in his it. "You know, that really isn't the worst idea you've ever had. If you would give me your phone? Thank you."

"What are you texting him?" John asked curiously, and his anger had nearly died away again.

" 'Bad news'. And as I know Lestrade, he'll be needing some moments to think about an answer to that, so we've got plenty of time to answer your questions."

That was the cue John had been waiting for, but had not dared hoping for. "How could you buy the plans? What about the real buyer?"

"I _am _the real buyer," Sherlock started explaining with surprising frankness and patience. "I had contacted Moran some weeks ago, pretending I was a deputy of the Vietnamese government and we arranged a deal."

"Then that note about the time and place of the deal wasn't written by Moran? You placed it there when you pretended to search his desk?"

"And I took it with me when we left, correct."

"But then why that trip to Tidworth?"

"I somehow had to let Mycroft in on the matter. If he had belonged to Moriarty's gang he might have suspected that I suspect him, so it wouldn't have worked to just knock on his door and tell him everything about my plans. Instead, I had to make him a part of them."

"But if he had intended to betray you, he could have simply not given you access to Tidworth. The guards would have arrested you and nobody would have been the wiser."

"_I_ would have been the wiser," Sherlock disagreed. "Besides, if Mycroft wanted to get rid of me not in some way to save his country, but for his own benefits, he would be taking a risk by calling in the authorities. And I was quite counting on the element of surprise: Mycroft couldn't have known before that I would come to him to ask him to get me access to Tidworth. So he couldn't have had a plan, but he would have had to consider the possibility that I had made plans and that I would have foreseen his plans. So he would have had to think of a plan within minutes and also wouldn't have had the possibility of being present at my arrest at Tidworth. And such a risky and unplanned plot that had nothing more to go on but a hunch? That's not like Mycroft."

John thought for a second. "Still doesn't sound watertight to me."

"That's why Irene and I worked out a plan B in case I was arrested."

"Irene again, huh?" For a moment, John felt tempted to ask how Sherlock could know that he could trust her, but then he didn't want to open that can of worms again.

Instead he asked, "So how was that trap for Mycroft supposed to work? How would you have found out if he had been a traitor?"

"Well, if he had belonged to Moriarty's confederates, he would certainly have warned his comrades that I knew about the handing over of the plans today. And they would have made precautions – they might have watched out for you. That's why I observed if you were being followed, or they might have chosen another way to find and eliminate me. Or they might have called off the handing over in the first place."

"So… wasn't that a pretty dangerous plan?"

"Well, hardly, taking everything into consideration. If Mycroft had been a mole, the most likely solution for the gang would have been to call the thing off. And in the unlikely case that they had put in place a trap for me at the station, I had taken quite enough precautions."

_If you say so_, John thought and decided he'd just be glad that everything had gone well.

"One other thing," he said. "Mycroft and a gun?"

For the first time, something like a smile seemed to play around Sherlock's lips. "You probably should ask him, not me, but apparently that's _his_ idea of a plan B."

"Instead of which plan A?"

"Instead of the official way. In Mycroft's point of view, someone – probably someone from another government – was going to get away with the Bruce Partington Plans. It's true that they're not that new anymore, but I guess they've still got the potential for some destruction. And if Mycroft had chosen the official way, people might have asked and poked around where he had got this information from, which might have given away or at least endangered me."

John frowned. "So he played cowboy to protect you?" It was somehow difficult for him to imagine _Mycroft_ doing such a thing.

"That's one way of putting it."

John hesitated for a moment, but he just couldn't help but make Sherlock think about his behaviour. "So…" he said with the tone of a teacher at primary school, "what does that tell us about Mycroft's trustworthiness?"

The look with which Sherlock answered him was as fierce as John thought only a spear could be. "I had to make sure."

John laughed briefly, but not very cheerfully. "That's all you have to say?" He ran his hands over his face, trying to shake his impatience off. God, he shouldn't have started that topic. But now he had to end it somehow. "You know what? I know I shouldn't care. But damn it, I do. And I think you should have known your own brother better than that. And me, by the way. I mean, maybe you didn't realise or you didn't care, but we actually believed you all the time, and we had your back, and what do you do? You make us believe you're dead and then you come back and mistrust us. Just – just tell me, do you actually realise what you did?"

He ran his hands over his face again, murmuring "damn it". He wanted to get up and storm out again. He couldn't stay sitting at this table, but at the same time he had to know if Sherlock had understood at least a soupçon of what he'd done to all of them.

It seemed so, John thought, although the disguise, including the rubber mask, didn't let him get a good look at Sherlock's features. But at least the silence spoke volumes. John couldn't be sure – who could ever be sure what was going on in that head of Sherlock's? – but it seemed as though he was thinking, and this time not about some abstract criminal problem, but about real human feelings.

"So… Suppose I had done something wrong," Sherlock began, and John suppressed both a groan and the urge to go for his throat. After all, it was a start. "What would you want me to do then?"

"Apologise," John replied at once.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

John looked at him doubtfully. He wasn't sure if Sherlock really meant it. And to tell the truth he had intended that Sherlock should apologise to his brother, not to him, although, John thought, it wasn't inappropriate.

He wondered if he should let his friend get off that easily, but then again it occurred to him that fighting against the conspiracy of an entire country, feigning one's own death and coming back on one's knees to ask for help to put his enemies behind bars wasn't something one would generally refer to as 'getting off easily'.

And it would probably also be better for his own nerves to let the topic go. As if nothing had happened, he inquired, "What about the seller of the plans? It wasn't Moran, was it?"

John could have sworn he saw signs of relief on Sherlock's face when they returned to criminological questions. "Of course not. It must have been one of his henchmen."

"So how do you intend to prove something to Moran?"

At that moment, John's phone gave a sound. Lestrade had texted an answer. "'Come to Baker Street at 8:30 pm'," John read out aloud. "That's it, nothing else."

"We don't need anything else. We'll know more tonight."


	11. Chapter 10

And again, thanks to Sky Writes :)

* * *

**Chapter 10**

John was still unsure why Sherlock was so confident that Lestrade would be able to help them. In any case, his friend wasn't half as downcast as John would have suspected him to be after the events at King's Cross.

They had met again some minutes ago near Baker Street and had walked together to their former flat which they were now looking at from the dark shadows of a house entrance a few houses away. John noticed that Sherlock had changed his disguise, although he wondered if that would be enough to fool their adversaries. And he wondered what else Sherlock might have done during the afternoon besides changing his outfit.

"Any news?" he therefore asked quietly when they had made themselves as comfortable as possible on the porch of their former neighbours' house.

Sherlock first shot glances up and down the road and houses before he, in a very low voice, hissed back, "Nothing worth mentioning."

John realised that he had chosen a bad moment to ask. Sherlock's agitation had again increased immensely as they had neared Baker Street, and John could see why: if someone wanted to attack Sherlock, he might very probably do so here near their former flat. It was true that Sherlock had found a new disguise, but John could still be easily recognised and so possibly unintentionally give away his friend.

"Quiet now!" Sherlock suddenly hissed although John hadn't said another word. "There he is."

John looked hard and as the shadow drew nearer, he too recognised it as Greg Lestrade. Sometimes, he really felt inclined to consider it treason to any medical knowledge to call the sharpness of Sherlock's senses human.

Sherlock didn't reveal himself to Lestrade at once; he first observed their surroundings. John did so too, but he couldn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary. There was no one who seemed to have a special interest in Lestrade and thus would have been likely to be spying on him. He kept his tongue, though. Sherlock's latest demonstration had reminded him that even his senses couldn't compete with the famous detective's.

"Stay here," Sherlock finally said and left the recess.

John watched him get nearer to Lestrade with his cane and those slow, heavy movements that suited the old, bent-over man he was imitating. When he reached him, he talked to him and made gestures to the niche John was still hiding in with the gestures of an old, excited man. Lestrade played along and accompanied him.

"Hello, John," he said, though he made quite a gloomy appearance.

"Greg. Any news?"

"Yeah, but probably not the kind you might want to hear."

"What is it?"

"We searched Parker's apartment, just as you said. But we couldn't find anything."

John didn't want to believe it. "Really, nothing?" he asked as if that could change the result.

Lestrade shook his head. "Donovan and I searched the whole place. And we were thorough. There's nothing to nail him with."

John inhaled deeply. "That's… unexpected." He had just barely managed not to say 'a catastrophe', but a glance at Sherlock's thoughtful face revealed that his friend was downcast enough and didn't need to hear such remarks.

"It was a possibility," Sherlock said very quietly, but also very earnestly.

Nobody said a word after that and the silence stretched uncomfortably until John's desire for something to happen became too strong to be suppressed further. "So – what now?" He looked from Sherlock to Greg and back again, but neither of them seemed to have any idea of how they might proceed.

"I had to release Parker on bail," Lestrade said eventually, but it wasn't really the kind of answer John had been hoping for. "I'll give you another 24 hours, Sherlock, to get Moriarty's gang. I will also try to find some evidence, but if we can't find anything, I really don't know what to do. We'll meet tomorrow at the same time at the house where we arrested Parker. Can you promise me you'll be there?"

John noticed that Greg couldn't even look Sherlock in the eyes and it struck him that if they couldn't find anything within the next 24 hours, Lestrade would be compelled to arrest Sherlock for faking his death and for whatever charges would result from his fraudulent career as a detective. And with his arrest, his chances of ever proving his innocence would become immensely slim.

"I'll be there," Sherlock said very calmly. "What does Sergeant Donovan say about all this?"

"I told her it's my responsibility. And I persuaded her to give us some more time."

"And she agreed?"

"Eventually." Lestrade looked around as if he was afraid they were being watched. "I have to go now. We don't really have much time, do we?"

"Thank you, Lestrade."

Lestrade's only answer was an impatient gesture with his hand. "Good luck," he said before he disappeared into the night.

"You didn't tell him about the hand over at King's Cross today," John observed after some moments.

"He didn't ask."

"I thought you were going to ask for his help?"

"What could he do anyway? We don't know anything about the man Moran sent."

"And, so why did we meet Lestrade?"

"To stay informed. And we did get some interesting news, don't you think?"

John snorted. _Oh yes, and what news!_ But by now, John was at a loss at detecting what confirmed with Sherlock's plans and what didn't. "Did you foresee this? That they wouldn't find anything at Parker's apartment?"

"Well, it's not something I was hoping for," Sherlock said and John found that it sounded genuine. "Although I must admit that it gives us something to work on."

John's eyebrows went up. "It does?"

"Oh yes. But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it."

John knew where this was headed, but that didn't mean that he would consent to it. "Oh no, Sherlock, not again –"

"We'll meet tomorrow night at Thames Road. You –"

"No, Sherlock," John said resolutely. This time he wouldn't give way to his friend's stupid ego trips. "I want to know what you're going to do. And I want to help you."

"And you're sure that they go together?"

John didn't react to the slightly ridiculing tone, but stayed firm. "Quite sure, yes."

He felt, rather than actually saw, Sherlock looking at him hard before he heard him say, "Come on," and followed him away from Baker Street through the night streets of London.


	12. Chapter 11

And another thanks to Sky Writes!  
Enjoy :)

* * *

**Chapter 11**

John had soon lost track of the direction they were headed. One would think that after years of living with Sherlock Holmes, one would have quite a good knowledge of London, but obviously that wasn't the case.

"Where are we?" he felt compelled to ask when they arrived at something that seemed to be an old, abandoned warehouse.

"At a meeting-point."

John was about to complain about the lack of information Sherlock was providing him with, but the other man stopped him before he could even start, "It's better if you don't know the exact location of this warehouse."

"And who are we going to meet?" John asked and decided he would just try to get an idea of the location when they left again.

Sherlock didn't have to answer because in the meantime, they had passed through several halls and corridors and had now obviously reached their destination. The hall was large and entirely empty, except for the slender figure pacing up and down along the opposite wall. Irene Adler.

She turned around at their steps and hurried to meet them in the middle of the hall. "Thank goodness," she whispered. "How did it go?"

She obviously knew where they had been, John realised while watching her seizing Sherlock's arm. And neither was she surprised to see him accompanying Sherlock, so probably that was where Sherlock had been during the afternoon, with her.

John couldn't help it; he found the somewhat intimate relationship between the two brilliant people rather creepy.

"They didn't find anything in Parker's apartment," Sherlock informed her.

"Oh," she said. "So… what are you going to do now?"

"We're meeting him tomorrow night. Any news about the locker?"

She shook her head and John thought he could read concern in her eyes. "Nothing yet. But he said he'd send someone to the dead letter box as soon as he shows up."

John had found it hard to follow up to this point, but now he was sure he had got lost somewhere. "I'm sorry – what? What locker? And what dead letter box?"

Irene only spared him a short glance. "He doesn't know?"

"I thought it'd be better if I told him about our plans some place where we couldn't be eavesdropped," Sherlock answered her, and John was getting a bit annoyed at being talked about as if he weren't there. But now, he at least realised why they were still standing in the middle of the hall: it was the place where it'd be hardest, if not impossible, for strangers to eavesdrop on them for they couldn't hide in an empty hall and the distance to each wall was at least twenty feet.

"Okay, so now that we _can't_ be eavesdropped on, what's this all about?"

"Irene followed the buyer when he left King's Cross," Sherlock explained quite readily. "Since they don't know her, we're quite sure everything went unnoticed by our 'friends'."

"Wait a sec, does that mean you know where that money is?" Another thought occurred to him. "Where did you get that money from anyway?"

"You may believe that providing money is not the most difficult problem we're facing right now," Sherlock answered dryly. John remembered Irene's life-assurance-system and decided he didn't want to go into details.

"But you've known it all along? Where that buyer went after the deal?"

"Of course. We had to find a place we knew Moran would go, didn't we?"

"I guess," John said still rather confused and wondering if he should be disappointed in Sherlock not telling him all that at once or glad because he was telling him now. But at the moment he was busier with asking the right questions and understanding the answers. Seize the day. "And what about this dead letter box?"

"A hole in a wall in one of the halls we passed through to get here . And our connection to the homeless network. Which will notify us when Moran gets to the money."

"All right," John said and wondered if he had got enough answers for the moment. "And what are we going to do now?"

This time, Sherlock didn't answer straight away. "To the locker. There's still a chance that Moran'll show up."

"What if he doesn't?"

John's head turned around, because for once, a question hadn't come from him, but from Irene.

"Then you should be prepared for plan B."

John didn't know what plan B was, but he thought it couldn't be wrong to hope that they wouldn't need it.

Half an hour later, they were standing on the other side of the street to an underground station with a wonderful view over a wall of grey, partially dented lockers.

"So now what?" John murmured when they had got into position. He rubbed his hands. It was in the middle of the night and he was cold and tired. Which of course didn't mean that he was ever going to complain. "We just wait and hope for Moran to come to us?"

"Well, it's not that I'm forcing you to stay."

"Don't start that again. You know I won't leave."

"Quite so, but I guess one always hopes that the stupid get reasonable."

John curled his lips. "Thanks for that," he said and couldn't help but recognise the cynical tone in his voice.

They had paid off the elderly homeless man and sent him away when they had come. Watching Moran to pick up the money was obviously an important part of Sherlock's plan although John wasn't sure why or what his friend was going to do when Moran arrived. Or more importantly what Sherlock would do if Moran _didn't_ arrive.

It took an hour of silent, not very comfortable waiting until something happened. John kept from making a sound when all of a sudden he felt the tight grip of his companion around his forearm. After a moment he could see it too: a shadow, walking slowly to the lockers on the opposite side of the street. John had no idea how Sherlock could be so sure it was their target, but he had learned to trust his friend.

The man took a key from what seemed to be a chain around his neck and while John was still wondering whether that was an immensely clever or an immensely idiotic or just an immensely clichéd place to hide such an item, Moran – if it was indeed him – had already opened, examined and closed the suitcase and disappeared again – with the suitcase in his hand.

John was about to follow him as he went down the street, but he held himself back when he felt that Sherlock apparently intended giving him a bit of a head start.

They nearly lost him when he got on the Tube some blocks away, but they were able to follow him up to another wall of lockers in an underground station. They kept their distance as they watched Moran put the money away and hide the key again under his shirt. Then he left.

"That's it then," Sherlock said when he was sure Moran was gone. "We'll meet tomorrow evening. Good night, John." With that, he too headed for the exit.

"Wait!" John asked with some confusion while trying to keep up with Sherlock's pace. "Where are you going?"

"Mycroft."

"Why?"

Sherlock turned around and gave him a surprised look, but didn't stop walking away from him. "Wasn't it you who told me to apologise to him?"

And before John could think of an answer to that, Sherlock was already gone.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_Better than nothing_, John thought as he lowered himself onto a sofa in one of the flats at 51 Thames Road. The door to the flat on the ground floor had been open; the lock was broken. The sofa had obviously been left behind by its previous owners. No wonder. It was so old it was nearly antique. In any case it had a very distinct resemblance to a ruin. But it was still comfortable enough for him to wait for Sherlock on it.

After some sleep and some dreadfully restless hours, John had decided to go to Thames Road early. In fact, he'd arrived an hour and a half before they were supposed to meet Greg Lestrade, but it just hadn't made any sense for him to wait in his flat. And when he had tried to find the warehouse where they had met Irene the day before, without success, he had come here, hoping that maybe Sherlock too might be early. An hour and a half.

John sighed. He thought he should be able to deduce what Sherlock was doing right now, but then again, what would be the use in knowing? If Sherlock needed him, he probably would have told him. And if he didn't need him, chances were that John was only going to ruin the other man's plans.

But if Sherlock hadn't foreseen that he would need his help…

John sighed again, annoyed. What was the use in pondering over it? He didn't know where Sherlock was anyway, so why bother.

The door squeaked.

John flinched violently. What was that? An animal? Or just some kids hanging around here? But that wasn't very likely since there were hardly any residential buildings in the area. And why would an animal or some loitering kids try to avoid making any sound?

The squeak had stopped and John listened hard to find out who had entered the house. He couldn't see into the hallway from his location and if he could, the darkness of the night would probably have prevented him from recognising anything. And anyway he wasn't sure if it was prudent to try and catch a glimpse of what or who was sneaking about outside. One never knew.

He was still brooding when there was another squeak. It must have been the front door again.

"Moran? Is that you?"

John tried to keep his breathing steady and completely noiseless. He was fairly positive he had recognised the voice although it had hardly been more than a whisper. So the two squeaks had to have been _them_. It had to be Parker and Moran, the only two men that were still left from Moriarty's confederates.

"Who else?" another voice hissed back.

Without making any sound**,** John drew his army revolver, still listening closely. His mouth was dry, but it was due rather to excitement than fear. He looked down at his hands. Completely steady. Good. He couldn't allow himself to lose his nerves tonight. Now less than ever before.

What were those two men doing here? Was it just an unbelievable coincidence? And if not – how could they possibly know that Sherlock was about to meet with Lestrade, here and now? Had they maybe been eavesdropped upon when they had met in Baker Street?

Anyway, whatever the way they might have found out, John only knew that this was bad. They were obviously preparing a trap for Sherlock – and John hadn't the slightest idea how he could possibly warn his friend.

_Okay, think this through. Don't do anything rash_, he told himself. It'd certainly be helpful to know what their two adversaries were up to. And Sherlock wouldn't come before more than hour, so he had plenty of time to spy on their plans. He just had to be careful, for he most certainly wouldn't be of any help to Sherlock if he got caught.

"Where's Milton?" John heard one of them ask. They were talking a bit louder, less carefully now and he was quite sure it had been Moran.

"How should I know?" Yes, it must have been him, for this was definitely Parker.

"Damn," Moran muttered. "If he doesn't show –"

"Wait," Parker cut him off. "I think he's coming."

He was. Whoever this 'Milton' was.

"What took you so long?" was the impatient greeting he got from Moran.

"Relax, we've still got plenty of time. So what's the plan?"

"You wait here," Moran told him. He clearly was the head of the gang. "Parker's going to the back door, I'm waiting on the first floor, so if one of us should ever be overcome, there's still two of us left to get things back into place. Whoever sees him first makes sure that he's alone. If this Adler woman or that doctor is with him, we'll make them go up to the roof too. Only kill them if it's necessary."

"Why?" Milton interrupted him. "Alive they're only an unnecessary risk."

"We can handle them. And everything will be so much nicer if Holmes has to kill them himself."

"What if they don't show up?" Parker intervened. "They could still be dangerous for us when Holmes is dead."

"How? Trust me, I've got enough friends who'll take care of them."

"And if they go to the police? Or the press?"

Moran snorted. "Who would ever believe them? Adler's supposed to be dead and that doctor is considered someone's friend who faked tons of crimes to make a name for himself as a detective. And now go get into your positions. He might be here at any moment."

John heard footsteps going off in different directions. He frowned. Who might be here at any moment? Sherlock? But they had agreed with Lestrade to meet in more than an hour. Or was there another accomplice to come? There was already one John hadn't expected, why not make it two?

And who was this Milton anyway? Was he also one of Moriarty's confederates? But Sherlock had told him that they were only _two_ of the old gang left, Moran and Parker, right? So who was this Milton? Or was he an old confederate of Moriarty's Sherlock didn't know about? Or did he know about him and had just chosen not to tell John? It wouldn't really be the first time for him to do such a thing.

Still, there were more important questions to be answered: What could he do now? If Lestrade and Sherlock arrived, they would almost inevitably get caught at once. And if that happened, they would really have a problem.

_Okay, calm down_, he told himself. He still had an hour to think of a plan and take precautions. What could he do? He could try to overpower the criminals one by one, but it seemed a rather foolish idea to him. Granted, he wasn't that bad at close combat, but even if he'd be able to get one of them down, there'd still be two other men who'd more than likely come to their accomplice's rescue. Even with his army revolver he couldn't hope being the winner against all three of them.

_All right, so no force, but wits. Come on, think of something!_

Maybe if he distracted them? He could lure the one at the back door away so that his accomplices wouldn't notice when it came to a fight between them, then he could get to the next, then the last… But how to distract them? And anyway, wouldn't they notice and warn each other when one of them left his position to go after a suspicious noise?

He suppressed a sigh of despair. Okay, so distraction was no option. But maybe if he found a way to warn Sherlock? There _had _to be a way… A pity that Sherlock didn't have a phone at the moment, it would have made things much easier. Maybe John could sneak out of the house and waylay him? But how was he supposed to get out of this flat? The door was still open a slit, so even if he could get to the window without being seen, he would most probably be heard. And then probably be seen by the man at the front door. Or from a window, depending on where exactly Moran had positioned himself on the first floor. No, everything was too risky, but unless he managed to come up with a better idea…

That was it! Lestrade! Lestrade had a phone, John could text _him_! Damn, why hadn't he thought of that at once? Granted, there was a chance Sherlock might arrive before him, but in any case somebody would be warned – somebody who might help.

John was just taking care that he wasn't making any sound as he drew out his mobile from his pocket when he heard it.

Steps coming up to the front door.

The squeak.

"Welcome, Sherlock. We've been waiting for you."


	14. Chapter 13

I'm sorry this took so long, but I'm hoping there's still someone out there reading this story. If so, please enjoy! (...and please don't yell at me when you've reached the ending)

* * *

**Chapter 13**

John closed his eyes and lay his head back in despair as cold sweat broke out on his forehead. That was it, then. They had Sherlock.

But there was still time to warn Lestrade.

He hardly listened to the meaningless words between Sherlock and Milton – they were apparently searching Sherlock for weapons and bugs, without finding anything, of course. He just hoped that the clicking sound of the phone buttons was low enough not to arouse any attention outside. His hands were sweaty, too, but at least they weren't shaking, thank God.

He'd just texted: _It's a tra_, when he stopped abruptly. Another squeak.

Now come on! What the hell was that?! Was the whole world against him?! Less than a minute could have passed since Sherlock's entrance. Had Lestrade watched him enter just to follow him and get trapped too or what?!

John suppressed a groan of dismay and listened to the conversation outside. "Lestrade!" That was that Milton bloke. "What a pleasure to see you! Welcome! Let me take your weapon from you – thank you very much." His voice was very low as if he were still trying not to be heard from outside the house, but his tone was also similar to that of an MC. "Parker!" he half called, half hissed towards the back door. "Make sure we didn't forget anyone for our little party!"

John closed his eyes. He couldn't catch a break, could he? True, if Parker only looked for intruders outside, there was no imminent danger of that villain finding him, for the window was covered. But if he also searched inside… He only had to enter the room and look behind the door, and there he would be, John Watson, sitting in the spotlight, completely defenceless.

Wait! That wasn't true! He _had_ a means of defence. At least it would work against one of them.

He felt some kind of relief when his hand closed again around the handle of his army revolver he'd laid next to him on the couch. But that was it. He couldn't do anything more to protect himself. If he tried to get up to hide somewhere else, he would probably be heard by the men in the hallway. In any case the risk was too high**,** given that there weren't any much better hiding-places in this room.

Everything was silent and John thought he could feel the tenseness outside until Parker returned. "Not a soul," he told his accomplices.

"In that case, _gentlemen_." Milton must have gestured them to mount the stairs, in any case that was what they did judging from the sound of their footsteps. They were still in hearing range when Moran greeted them on the first floor. "Good evening, Sherlock. A _very_ good evening it is, indeed. And since you're our special guest tonight, we'd like to make you feel comfortable. As I understand, you have a certain preference for rooftops, isn't that right?"

John's heart was drenched in ice. Not the roof. Dear Lord…

The image was again in front of his eyes and the film ran forwards and backwards, images mixing and floating in his head: Sherlock falling, Sherlock being carried away by the paramedics, Sherlock on the roof, Sherlock jumping off, Sherlock on the pavement, lying in his own blood, dead –

With an extra-human effort John pulled himself back to the present. He had to pay attention. It hadn't been real then. It had been like a bad dream. No reason to be upset.

But this was real.

Their steps had become significantly less audible and John thought it was high time to do something. Mycroft. He could still contact Mycroft. He wasn't sure if the other man would be able to help, but he definitely couldn't let this opportunity go.

Before he typed the text, he made sure that the alarm for in-coming messages [both phone calls and texts] was turned off. Then he sent: _Sherlock's in trouble, 51 Thames Road, quick_. That should do it.

He wasn't sure if enough time had elapsed so he could follow them. What if they overcame him? He wouldn't be of any help to Sherlock then. Maybe he should just wait for Mycroft? On the other hand it might very well be too late when he arrived – if he arrived at all. And John definitely couldn't take the thought of Sherlock jumping off a roof a second time.

The idea made shivers run down his spine and his legs felt a little shaky, but he took a deep breath. He couldn't lose it now. Sherlock's life depended on him.

John tried to visualise the house from the outside. Two, three, four… Four windows above each other, that meant the building had four floors. He mounted the first three flights of stairs rather quickly, but then he had to be more careful. He didn't know the terrain. Was there only a skylight leading to the outside or a real door? Was it open or shut? Were they facing it or not?

He paused. He couldn't hear their voices. Neither could he hear the wind. Did that mean that the door (or whatever) was shut or didn't it mean anything at all?

One last time he sifted through the possibilities in his mind. If he went down the stairs again and tried to see something from below, they might also see him. So, that was no option. And he couldn't find any other way of getting more information about the situation on the roof. Seemed as though he was just going to have to risk it.

One step was missing to the fourth floor when he stopped again. A slight breeze. Hardly noticeable, but his adrenaline-sharpened senses could never have missed it. With all probability that meant that the door – or whatever it was – was open, but there was still a wall between him and the last flight of stairs that had to lead to the roof.

He got down to his knees and peeped around the corner. He knew that being on his knees wouldn't help much if there was somebody watching this particular corner, but the fact that someone would expect another human being at eye-height might very well give him the moment of surprise that could save his life. And moments did matter. He had seen that often enough in Afghanistan.

There was nobody there and John shoved himself forward until he could see around the corner that finally led up to the roof. He – most silently – took a deep breath, drew his weapon and sprung forward to glance up the last flight of stairs.

Nobody.

He'd been right, though. The door was slightly ajar. He could make out the dark sky, but there were no silhouettes to be seen.

He went up the stairs, slowly, carefully. Now he was finally standing directly behind the door. He was aware that by his slow advancement he had lost valuable time. And it might already be too late.

He could hardly suppress a sigh of relief when he heard Sherlock's voice: "So it was _you_. I must say, that is… a turn-up."

John could now see the group, at least three of them. One of them was obviously Sherlock; he wasn't in disguise now, but was wearing his customary long, black coat, and his stature was unmistakable. Plus, he was the only one of the three who had his hands in the air.

John tried to move to a different place to see where the other two people were, but he didn't succeed; the slit between door and frame was too small and right now he didn't dare open it wider.

Someone laughed. Was it Parker or Milton? "Yeah, you didn't expect that, did you?" Definitely Milton. "Well, that's your problem, Holmes. Too proud and fond of yourself to think your friends would ever betray you."

Wait, wait, wait – what was that? Was Sherlock friends with _Milton_?! Didn't Milton belong to Moran and Parker? And wasn't he trying to kill him right now?

"Why did you do it?"

John grimaced with nearly physical pain. He'd never heard Sherlock sound so forlorn. Never – except maybe the day he'd died. Still, it seemed weird to him. If Sherlock and Milton had been so close, wouldn't he, John, have known about it? As far as he knew the list of Sherlock's friends had never been a long one. Maybe they'd been friends many years ago? But then why hadn't they had contact until now? Or was it an acquaintance from during the past year, after Sherlock had faked his death and gone underground? And if that was so, what had Milton done to betray him? Moriarty had been already dead at that time, it just didn't make sense.

Ever eager John listened to Milton's answer.

"It's not that I _chose_ to betray you, Sherlock. It just… it happened."

_No_.

John's mind was wiped empty, only filled with horror. That hadn't been Milton's voice.

It had been Lestrade's.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Something here was going wrong, horribly wrong… Lestrade a traitor? How could that be? And in what sense could he have betrayed Sherlock? Had he joined Moriarty's gang? But that was absurd. He'd never have done such a stupid thing.

"You may excuse my disbelief, Lestrade," John heard Sherlock say with something of his usual arrogant, mocking tone, "but switching from the good Inspector to the evil villain and joining Moriarty's gang aren't things that just 'happen'."

"I didn't join Moriarty, Sherlock."

John felt a strong urge to breathe a sigh of relief. So at least the betrayal didn't mean that Lestrade had changed sides.

"Then you did a remarkable job in pretending you had."

"Look, after Moriarty's death, I just… I couldn't believe that you had faked all those crimes, so I started digging. But as it turned out, rooting through the dirt didn't make me popular with some people."

"Face it, Holmes," interrupted Moran sneeringly. "We're too good for you. Nobody can get to us, and if they try – well, you've got your inspector-friend here as a living example."

"What happened?" Sherlock's voice was calm, un-accentuated. It was unusual in such a situation, even for him. It was as if all his energy had left him.

"We had a little chat with him. He wasn't really co-operative at first, but who would know better than you, Holmes, what a little talking can do? In any case it… _convinced_ Lestrade to work with us. Quite handy to have an inspector. Especially if you have to get your people out of jail. Frankly, I doubted he could do it, but he really managed to make it look clean."

"It was a clear case, how did you get Milton free?"

"I faked some files."

John didn't miss that Lestrade's voice sounded tired, exasperated. Still, he had difficulty feeling pity for him. "But it _was_ quite difficult to keep up appearances when he was arrested the second time."

"Well, you shouldn't have tried to kill me, Milton. Didn't your mother always tell you that revenge never works out?"

"You know, Holmes, I wonder how you can possibly continue being such an arrogant ass," Milton said. "You do realise we're going to kill you, right? And since it's four of us against – let's see... _you_ – it isn't really smart to be so annoying."

"Oh, so you _are_ going to kill me? No offence, but I was just wondering. I mean, you're neither efficient nor quick. Other people might have killed me a dozen times already by this time."

"Don't worry, we'll get to it," Milton answered dryly. "We just wanted you to know that we're powerful – much more so than you gave us credit for."

"I might be wrong, but does that have any importance to me when I'm dead?"

"No," Moran said slowly and John could nearly see the sneer on his face. "But it makes your last moments so much nicer – for us, in any case."

"I see. So you need the approval of a dying man to shore up your ego?"

Moran laughed. "As if _you_ were the man to talk about egotism! But no, that's not it. We just wanted you to know what we can do – and _will _do – with people who don't let us alone. We'll destroy them. Just as we destroyed you. I understand you do have some friends here – that doctor, your little friend Irene… Well, we figured that a man like you would want to know all the answers before he died. So now you know. And you also know that it's your fault we're going to make their lives miserable. _Before_ they might try and clear your name. Pity you'll never have the time to come to peace with that."

"It won't work." John noticed that Sherlock's voice was extremely calm, that was: _deliberately_ calm, and that again strengthened John's conviction that on the inside, Sherlock was everything but calm. "If you kill them, people will start thinking and understand what really happened a year ago."

Moran laughed hard. "You're so naïve. Okay, first to rob you of an illusion: We aren't _just_ going to kill your friends. That would be way too gentle. And two: Don't you realize that nobody who ever stood or will stand on your side is ever going to be believed again? And I really think nobody but Jim Moriarty could ever have done that so nicely, that's something both you and I must admit. I wouldn't have thought it, but they all really swallowed that actor story. And in the end it seemed that it wasn't all that difficult. That's how it works, isn't it, Holmes? Tell them a story with a tiny little lie and all those idiots out there are going to believe you. And you really must give him credit for that, Jim's always been a good story-teller. Well, bad luck for you."

"Still you wouldn't dare –"

"Oh, we would, Holmes, and we certainly will. Trust me, you can abandon all hopes for your friends. Indeed, the idea of making you watch them get destroyed is very tempting, but let's face it, I just can't wait to see you die. So, Lestrade – if you please."

"_Me?_"

"Yes, you."

Silence. Although John hardly noticed it, for the blood was rushing through his ears, drumming in his head. He had to do something, quickly. Mycroft obviously wasn't here yet, and there was no more time to be wasted.

He took a deep breath, pushed the door open and the next instant, he was pointing his gun at Moran – who was pointing _his _gun at Sherlock.

"Drop it."

It amazed John a teensy bit just how calm his voice sounded. But there was no time wondering about that. He was up against four adversaries. Better try to keep an eye on them. He could now see that it had been Moran and the one who had to be Milton who he had seen from his hiding spot behind the door. Lestrade and Parker were standing to one side, Lestrade very close to the edge of the roof, Parker very close to the door John had just come through. And Parker, too, was holding a gun. Which was now pointed at him.

Moran laughed. "Really? Good Lord, you cannot possibly be so stupid, can you?" John clenched his teeth, but he didn't interrupt Moran. If that villain wanted to buy him time by mocking him, he should go ahead.

"I'm searching the house once more," Milton said into the tense atmosphere that seemed to elude only Moran. An instant later, Milton was gone, but nobody took great notice of him.

"What's your plan now, man?" Moran continued mocking John. "Do you want to shoot me? Next thing you'll notice is the bullet that smashes your brain, and your friend will die anyway. For heaven's sake, what happened to rationality? Can you explain that to me, Holmes? Why is it people always act so foolishly?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said calmly, but his fierce gaze was fixed upon John. And there was a look in his eyes John couldn't quite read, even less in the darkness. Annoyance? Despair? Or… fear?

"Anyway, drop that thing now," Moran said with the leniency of a father who slowly gets tired of the practical jokes of his toddler.

John snorted. "No." His revolver was probably the only reason he was still alive. He would certainly not let go of it.

Moran sighed in a quite exaggerated manner and bent towards Sherlock in something like a confidential way. "Is he always that naïve?" Then he addressed his words to John again: "Okay, Doctor, you drop that thing or Parker is going to shoot your friend here."

"You won't do that."

There was mock surprise in Moran's raised eyebrows. "I won't? And why not?"

"Because an instant later I will have put a bullet into your brains."

"And an instant after _that_, Parker will have shot you, too. Or he might kill you slowly."

John paused for an instant. There was truth in Moran's words. Admittedly, there was also Lestrade to be considered, but one, Milton had taken his weapon from him, and two, John still wasn't sure on which side the inspector stood. In any case John couldn't rely upon him.

He therefore chose the other tactic. "You wouldn't risk that."

Moran smiled at him with something like pity. "Won't I? But you will? Now come on, drop this thing. I can guarantee you, it won't help you if you make me get impatient."

John wavered. It was true that he _thought_ Moran wasn't going to shoot Sherlock, but could he be certain? On the other hand, if he let go of his weapon, was there any chance that they would get out of this alive? But then again, if he didn't let go of it – would that improve their chances?

He didn't have time to think it through. "Three," Moran started the countdown, but he didn't have to go on.

"All right!" John interrupted him, put on the safety catch of his army revolver, bent down and laid it on the floor.

"Very nice," Moran said with a satisfactory smile, "now kick it over."

The weapon was still sliding across the roof towards Moran when John realised that he'd made a big mistake, and he wouldn't even have had to see Sherlock's gaze to become aware of that. But he'd just panicked. Damn, why hadn't he just thought it through? What the hell was wrong with him?

"Now let's see," Moran said and started walking up and down, very close to the edge of the roof. The idea hit John that it would be so easy to push him over it, but he knew that wouldn't solve their problems, although he might not have any problems left as soon as Parker had shot a bullet through his brains. And besides Parker, there was also Milton to be considered even if they had got rid of Moran. And perhaps Lestrade had to be considered as an enemy, too. John couldn't read him.

"Who's going to kill whom first?" Moran contemplated aloud. He, at least, was obviously having a great time. "Ah, that's difficult… It would surely be a pleasure to see Holmes kill his little friend, wouldn't it? What do you think, Oscar?"

Even Parker wasn't in a mood as playful as Moran's. "Just kill Holmes," he muttered, "it's 'bout time. We can still kill the other guy afterwards."

"You know, maybe you're right. And wouldn't it be splendid if the Doctor killed Holmes? Now, what do you say to that, Dr Watson?"

"Forget it."

"What a shame! Look, Holmes, there it is again, the foolishness and irrationality of the common people! You could have won some more moments to live, Doctor, if you had just agreed to do us this little favour. Now, alas, it's your turn to die. So please, proceed, Lestrade."

"Wh – what? Why me?"

"Oh, come on, Inspector, do you really think we don't know you're still on their side? But I guess a nice little murder will divert your loyalty towards us. Oh, and of course afterwards, it'll be you who gets the honour of shooting Holmes. This way we don't have to argue which one of us three gets to kill him. That is, if he doesn't choose to jump of the roof."

"I – I can't…" If Lestrade hadn't been an enemy right now, John might have pitied the stammering detective inspector.

"Oh yes, you can. Just think about what _we_ can do."

John saw Lestrade swallow, but at the same time he thought that his mind shouldn't be occupied with such unnecessary details. Lestrade was going to kill him. These were the last seconds of his life.

Were they? It seemed so utterly unreal. During the entire past few days, he'd only considered the possibility of _Sherlock_ being in danger, not himself. And now his life was going to end, just like that? He couldn't believe it.

Well, he better should.

When Greg Lestrade pointed his gun at him, his arm and hand shaking just a trifle, the realisation hit John. He was going to die. Now. There was nothing he could do about it. And if there had been something, it would be too late now. Should he pray? He'd never believed in a higher power, but it couldn't do any harm, right?

With the sensation that everything was happening far too quickly and that there were so many things missing that left his life incomplete, he closed his eyes. He had the feeling that he should collect himself, be calm and prepared for the coming, for the end…

The shot rang out.

For an instant, John was both surprised and relieved that he didn't feel any pain, but before he could think about that further, he became aware bustling and opened his eyes wide. At the same instance it occurred to him that he wasn't dead. He might not even be hit.

In a fraction of a second, John took in his surroundings and realised what must have happened: There was Sherlock, standing close to Lestrade who was holding his right wrist; the gun wasn't in his hand anymore, but on the floor, and Sherlock was just about to pick it up after apparently having kicked it out of Lestrade's hand. Moran was motionless, but not so Parker. He had been pointing his gun at Sherlock all the time and was now following the man's movements. Currently, Lestrade was still between Sherlock and Parker, but if Sherlock stretched only a foot more to get to Lestrade's gun, he would be in Parker's firing line.

Thus, Sherlock was still moving towards the gun when John knew what was going to happen. "No," he said and couldn't distinguish whether it was a cry or a whisper, but it didn't matter, for the word would never be able to prevent the calamity. He knew it and he darted forward. He wanted to push Sherlock aside, to do something, anything, but already he knew that his attempt was in vain.

Not more than two seconds could have passed since the shot, although time appeared to be standing still, as if to mock John in his inactivity.

The second shot went off and this time John knew it was over.


End file.
